


In Time, in Time

by DeathsLights



Category: DCU (Comics), Super Sons (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Bruce knows everything, Damian Wayne is a Little Shit, Damian becomes a real boy, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, He's also really whipped, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, The Batfam, This is the fluffiest thing I have ever written, Time Skips, everything, it's like cotton candy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 29,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26801869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeathsLights/pseuds/DeathsLights
Summary: “Dad, can I ask you question?” The fabric of his jeans is rough against his chin.“Of course.”“Do soulmates always love each other?”Clark’s forehead wrinkles. “I think that people like to make it a fairy tale. It’s a wonderful idea that there is someone out there made for you, but I think that it’s a choice whether or not you end up loving that person.”“Why do we have marks then?”His dad looks out over their fields. His gaze distant. “I don’t know. I’ve heard the stories of the gods and goddesses taking pity on humans who wept at their loneliness. I’ve heard a human is only half a soul and the mark leads them to the other half. I’ve heard of fate branding humans to each other. Of souls being entwined and separated. There are many stories.” Clark looks down at his son. “But you are the only one that gets to decide what that mark means to you.”Jon sinks his teeth into his lip. “What if I don’t know?”“That’s okay, Jon. You may not know for awhile and that’s fine.”OrJon has known Damian Wayne has been his soulmate since he's been ten. He's just never told him.
Relationships: Jonathan Kent/Damian Wayne
Comments: 223
Kudos: 668





	1. The Mark

**Author's Note:**

> ....My best friend likes to show me ships and somehow we always end up here. All she wanted to do was trick me into writing fluffy Bat Fam moments and this monster came out. She's an evil mastermind.
> 
> It's been a really long time since I've decided to do a multi-chapter piece O_O

**In Time, in Time**

**Chapter One: The Mark**

It worries his parents. They don’t say it. It does though. Jon tugs his shirt to the side and tilts his head.

The kids at school have marks that are splashes of bright, vibrant colour made of living things on their skin that they show each other in secret. He doesn’t realize anything is wrong until he shows his one day, and the kids go quiet. He tells his parents. There is a strained silence before they answer.

His dad puts down his coffee mug, kneels down on the floor, grips his shoulders, and smiles. “No, son there is nothing wrong with you or it.”

  
Jon frowns. “Then, why were they acting so weird? Why isn’t mine like theirs?”

His mom hugs him from behind, smelling of ink and stale coffee. She curls around him. Her hair tickles his cheek. “It’s because you’re special, darling and so is your soulmate. People won’t understand that‒not everyone will.” His mom presses a kiss to his check. “So, you can’t show them, Jon. You can’t show anyone your mark.”

  
His fingers clench against the fabric of his shoulder. His father’s smile dims. He nods, throat tight, and stomach knotted.

The mark is dark on his skin like a stain. He traces it and flinches at the slash of rage hot against his ribs, and the rake of dark hate against his heart. There’s sadness and loneliness under that, that makes his bones ache. He wonders whose mark he bares.

His is a mark of death: a crown made of bone.

  
**ꟷ**

He hides it like his parents ask him to. Smiles embarrassed when the other kids ask to see it—says he can’t because of where it is. He rubs his shoulder apologizing to his soulmate. _He’s sorry, he’s sorry, he’s sorry‒_

  
**ꟷ**

  
It is only when he lies awake in bed with Ted-El under his arm, and Krypto’s warm weight by his side that he lets himself trace the mark. His soulmate is never happy. There is numbness and pain. Only anger and hate. He buries his face into Ted-El’s soft, tan fur and curls his fingers into the white fur of Krypto’s flank. The scent of lavender from their fabric softener lingering in his nose.

  
**҉**

He’s seven when the mark on his skin starts to change. He doesn’t notice at first because the change is too slow, bones shift and move, until one day he notices that the bones are starting to break from the crown piece by piece, until they lie discarded on his skin in fragments of ivory. He puts his palm over it and is consumed by a storm of rage and hate so dark and strong that he has to grip the bathroom sink to steady himself in its awake. It breaks, crumbles underneath his hand like weathered clay. He comes to his father hugging him and telling him to breath. “Shhh, Jon. Shh. It’s okay.” Jon’s crying because his soulmate is always hurting, and he doesn’t know how to make it better.

The bones start to join again into something new. He spends hours in the bathroom with the door locked at night waiting for the image to form.

* * *

  
He wakes up one day to the sunlight streaming through his window. The dust mites look like crystals as they float. He stares at his ceiling knowing that his mark has finished reforming. He lies in bed waiting to hear the click of the front door close, as his parents go to work before going to check. He closes his eyes and tugs off his shirt. He counts to ten before he opens his eyes and looks down to the skeleton of a bird on his shoulder with its wings spread out in flight. It’s ugly and gross, but when his fingers trace the bones of the wing there is anger and hate—underneath that, small and weak, hope flickers against his fingers. Jon smiles and doesn’t stop for days because the hope grows and grows and doesn’t stop. Neither does his mark.

It starts with a single primary feather on the furthest edges of the wing. The feather is black as the night in Hamilton on their farm. Then, another joins it and another until the wings are filled. The hate starts to bate, and the feathers turn inward covering the stomach and head. There is something warm hidden in the depths that starts to unfurl, stopping once the tail’s white tipped feathers come in. The bird’s visible eye is narrowed. There is something feral about the way it looks, dark and menacing. Even though it’s a small bird, considering the anger that never really goes away it fits.

  
**ꟷ**

It is Sunday morning at the Kent house, the air smells of coffee. The table is filled with chocolate chip pancakes topped with strawberries and whipped cream. He waits until both his parents are sitting down for breakfast before bringing it up.

“Mom, dad.” His parents both stop at the seriousness in tone. “I wanna show you something.” He pushes back the chair.

His mom exchanges glances with his dad. “What, Jon?”

Jon fiddles with the hem of his shirt, drawing a steadying breath before taking off his shirt. His dad breaks his coffee mug, splashing coffee down his white button shirt and his mom’s utensils clatter to the ground.

“Oh my‒”

“Wha?”

Jon grins. “So, my mark changed.”

  
ꟷ

  
His parents crowd him, both leaning close to look at the mark.

“Do marks change?”

“Apparently,” his mom mutters. She squints. “It’s an angry bird, isn’t it?

Clark nods. “I didn’t even know birds could look this angry.” He leans closer. “What kind of bird is it?”

“I think it’s a raven or a crow!”

Clark shakes his head. “Jon, that isn’t what ravens or crows look like. I never seen it before. Is this normal?”

Lois shrugs. “I don’t really remember Soulmate Studies too well.”

“I can ask Bruce? He might know?” Even as he’s talking, he’s already dialing without looking away from the mark. “Hi Bruce, I hope I haven’t disturbed you. I have a question. Can soulmate marks change?” Clark nods. “Hm. Okay. Thanks, Bruce.” He cuts the call. “Well, Bruce says that it’s rare, but it can happen when a person drastically changes their path and who they are.”

Jon feels a hum of pride. His soulmate is special and amazing.

  
**ꟷ**

His dad takes him to the library to take out a book about the birds of North America, so they can figure out what the bird is. He spends his mornings before school and the evenings after he’s done school going through the pictures, hoping to find the bird.

Jon falls asleep to the thrum of hope and warmth and something a little like love every night as he rests his cheek over his mark. _It doesn’t last._ He wakes up one-night screaming as the mark burns and burns. Krypto digs his paws into his ribs and barks. His heat vision scorching the ceiling. His parents run in, but he can’t stop because it hurts so much.

  
His dad covers his eyes with his hand and holds him down. He can hear his mother murmuring and petting his hair, but he can’t hear her. Krypto’s whine is high and panicked. He curls around his dad’s arm when the pain stops and sobs because the skin on his shoulder doesn’t fit anymore.

  
**ꟷ**

There are days after that his parents try to start conversations that fall into the worn hardwood floors of their home. He looks at the skin over his shoulder once after that night and punches the mirror at the unblemished flesh it reflects back. His dad stands by the door, frowning as he watches.

“It’s not fair.” The shards of glass blur. His dad picks him, lets him hide against his neck. His dad presses a kiss into his hair. “They were finally happy.”

“I know, I know, Jon. I’m so sorry, son.”

He never looks at his shoulder after that.

He takes to pulling the covers over his head at night and clutches Ted-El to his chest to fight against the coldness in his heart.

Once years ago, in kindergarten, his teacher asks them to sit in a circle on the carpeted floor. He can feel pebbles dig into his palms. The carpet is itchy. She takes a seat on the rocking chair, wincing a little as her knees bend. She adjusts her long floral skirt, smoothing out the wrinkles. Mrs. Martinez smiles, her wrinkled cheeks pull up. Her eyes brown eyes are always kind, crinkled in laughter. “Today, we’re going to talk about soulmarks. I know that you’re all curious, and you’ve asked your parents about them already and when you go into higher grades you’ll get more information, but we'll start here. Soulmarks are wonderful things, children. They mean that somewhere in the world there is someone who will become very special to you. The marks on your skin tell you a little bit about them, about who they are, what they feel.”

“Why do we have them?”

Mrs. Martinez smile grows. “There are lots of answers to that and one day you will decide which one is true for you. All I can tell you is that at the end of that mark will be someone for you and you for them.”

He wonders what his soulmate had been like.

* * *

He stays silent when his classmates talk about their soulmates and tunes out during their Soulmate Studies classes because why does it matter anymore? His dad asks in a hesitant tone if he wants to go to the library to get more books on ornithology months later. Jon stares out the kitchen window where there is miles and miles of untouched snow-covered fields. There is always a coldness that lingers in the winter months because the farm is old and the heating is finicky. He and his mom take to wearing thick knitted sweaters and wool socks. The kitchen is the warmest place. His cornflakes have turned into a soggy bowl of milk and mush.

His mom covers his hand with hers. “It might make you feel a little better, Jon to learn what that mark meant.”

Jon doesn’t want to, but his parents have been trying for months to make him happy. Whether it’s going on more family trips on the weekends or making him hot chocolate at night while they sit on his bed and read to him. He doesn’t want to see their hopeful smiles fall anymore. He nods. “Okay.”

The trip into the centre of Hamilton is silent. Jon leans his head against the window as their pickup truck passes farm fields that look like blank canvases that span across the horizon. They pass snowmen built in front of farm houses with smiles made from pebbles and arms from sticks.

“Things will be hard, Jon, but you will meet so many people in your life and they may not be your soulmate but you will love them. Just because you have lost your mark doesn’t mean you’re going to be alone.” His father understands that better than anyone else‒the loneliness. It’s only humans that have soulmarks. He wonders what his dad’s childhood had been with the constant reminder of his unmarked skin. When he had been born, it was his dad who had worried the most that Jon would be like him, then the mark had come and the worry did not go.

Jon closes his eyes and wishes he’d just got to meet his soulmate, though.


	2. Damian Wayne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s ten when he meets Damian Wayne. Well, not meets because Damian kidnaps him and threatens him in the Batcave, so he’s ten when Damian Wayne abducts him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> None of this would have been possible without my best friend letting me show her the progress and just bombard her with my annoying ass self. Without her, I probably wouldn't have even taken this on.

**Chapter Two: Damian Wayne**

Eventually, it gets a little easier to live with the odd emptiness left behind. A year passes. He wakes one morning to the twittering of robins and grits his teeth as he glares at the ceiling. There is a buzzing spreading over the skin of his left shoulder. He’s going to kick his soulmate’s butt when he meets them.

His dad presses the coffee maker’s buttons with his eyes closed, dressed only in a tank top and boxers. His mom has fallen asleep on the armchair in the living room with her notebook in her lap. There are sheets of paper all over the coffee table and on the floor. They’ve both been working on compiling an article that’s going to feature the founding members of the Justice League.

“Mom? Dad?”

Clark turns to him, his eyes still closed, and his mom snorts awake. Neither of them is really conscious enough. They stare at him for bleary minutes before they both snap awake. Lois tumbles off the sofa, and Clark rushes to catch her before her head hits the edge of the coffee table. They both stare wide-eyed at his shoulder.

Jon scratches the back of his neck and shrugs. “I guess my soulmate came back to life?”

**ꟷ**

The bird is not from South America or Europe and searching up black bird on the internet only brings up pictures of the villainess Blackbird. Jon starts to bring more and more books on birds back from the library and takes to flipping through them at the dinner table

҉

He’s ten when he meets Damian Wayne. Well, not _meets_ because Damian kidnaps him and threatens him in the Batcave, so he’s ten when Damian Wayne abducts him. It’s as they are trying to punch the other into unconsciousness that his shirt slips over his shoulder, and Damian puts his hand over the mark and uses his shoulder to vault over him that he realizes. He blinks, startled as the mark warms. His skin tingles in recognition as Damian sweeps his feet out from under him and punches him in the mouth. Jon stares at the stalagmites that hang from the cave’s ceiling before snarling and jumping back to knock out some of Damian’s teeth because the jerk is his _soulmate._

Their dads stop their fight before Jon has the chance to at least kick Damian in his short knees for all the stuff that he’s put him through. He stares at Damian’s face, watching as the bruise on Damian’s chin starts to colour.

He tunes back into the conversation that Batman and Superman are having.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to have them work together.”

Damian scowls. “Father, I agree with Superman. It would be a mistake.”

“Dad,” he says not taking his eyes off of Damian. “I wanna work with Robin.”

His dad frowns. Batman stares at him before turning back to Superman. “You heard your son, Superman.”

“But Father‒”

“Do I make mistakes, Damian?”

Damian closes his mouth. “No, Father.”

“Then you will work with Superboy from now on.”

Superman’s brows furrow down. “Are you sure, Jon?”

He doesn’t stop staring at Damian’s face. “Yeah, I’m sure, dad.”

“Okay.”

As their dads walk away to deal with hero things, Damian grabs his shirt and hauls him until they’re nose to nose. “If you embarrass me in front of my father, farm boy, I’m going to gut you, put you up in your hayfields as a scarecrow, and let the ravens pick out your eyes.” Jon blinks. Wow.

**ꟷ**

His dad flies them home. He strains his neck to watch the dark city skyline of Gotham fade from his perch on his father’s back as the cold wind stings his cheeks.

“Why do you want to work with Robin?”

Jon holds onto to his dad tighter. “I think I can learn a lot of things from him.” It’s not the full truth, but Jon needs some time to figure out what he wants from his soulmate. “Do you not want me to?” Jon feels the deep sigh his father takes.

“I think he needs a friend, Jon. He’s been alone for a very long time, but Damian Wayne is complicated and dangerous.”

Jon presses his forehead to his father’s neck to shield his face from the whipping wind. “I think he’s really sad, dad.”

“He is. That doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous, though.” 

“I want to work with him. Please.”

He holds a breath as he waits for his dad’s answer. “Alright, just...be careful.” He closes his eyes and forces the guilt back. He just needs a little time.

**ꟷ**

He searches up different species of robins when he goes home. It takes him a few hours to work through the continents until he finds it and then he knows what is on his shoulder. A Black Scrub-Robin, native to Africa and the Middle East. _Rebirth_. _Regenesis. Renewal._

**ꟷ**

The robin on his shoulder radiates anger and annoyance in a steady throbbing. Jon hugs Ted-El to his chest, grumbling. If anyone should be annoyed it should be him having a jerk as a soulmate. Damian’s not the one that has to deal with a soulmate who only feels anger. Damian’s not the one who's spent nights with his hand over his mark hoping for happiness. Damian’s not the one who had to live with the death of his soulmate for _a year_. _Stupid Damian Wayne, and his stupid face._

A week passes before he gets anything from Damian. He leaves his worn backpack by the door next to his mud caked shoes, humming to himself as he walks to the kitchen. Lois is in the kitchen, her hair tied in a loose bun with a pen tucked behind her ear, and a mug of coffee as big as Jon’s head in her hands.

“You got something in the mail.”

Jon grabs an apple from the fruit basket in the centre of their dining table. “I’m too young to get mail, mom.”

His mom nods to the kitchen counter. Jon walks over and among the pile of white bills is a thick, black envelope with his full name, including his middle name, written in a flowing cursive script. He flips it over, and it’s even got a silver wax stamp on the back with a ‘W’ on it.

He stares at the envelope. Lois slides the parring knife over to him, pretending not to be interested in the letter as she sips her coffee. He picks it up and breaks the seal.

_Haystalk,_

_You will come to the manor tomorrow for training. I expect nothing but incompetence from you. However, do come and show me what it means to be the son of Superman._

_Forever Disappointed,_

_Damian Wayne_

**҉**

The Wayne Manor towers over him, built from stone and brick that carries the weight of a history belonging to the Wayne’s. It stands like a house of old from storybooks, boarded up with an iron gated fence and acres of immaculate green lawns and old oak trees. It is like a fortress, secluded and protected. There’s something sad about it though, in the spacing between the bricks and stone. Something a little haunting.

The large, dark wooden doors open without a sound. Alfred nods his head in greeting. “We’ve been expecting you, Master Jon.”

“Hi, Mr. Pennyworth. I’m sorry I’m late. My dad had to go stop a bridge from collapsing in New York.”

“Your father is always in demand.” Alfred stands aside. “Master Damian is expecting down you in the Batcave. I will show you the way.”

The white marble tile gleams underneath his feet without a scuff or mark. A large staircase rises and branches out to the other floors of the manor. He follows Alfred deeper into the manor, passing through hallways with locked doors made of thick wood and windows where sunlight cuts through the darkness to sting your eyes. Alfred stops by a door, pulling out a brass key to unlock it. The room is filled with books; walls and walls of books from the first to the second floor. There is a fireplace off to the side surrounded by a set of leather sofas. The centre wall is a series of arched windows that let light in. There is a mahogany desk with a computer tilted to the side and two inkwells where fountain pens rest. There is a single square table lamp with a shade made from stained glass that looks like a paper lantern with dark black edging and thin horizontal lines that divide the latte coloured glass. Alfred walks behind the desk to the grandfather clock behind the desk. He moves the hands until the clock reads 10:48 and steps back. The clock moves to the side to reveal a staircase that descends down into darkness.

“Down through there, Master Jon.”

Jon wipes his palms on his jeans and lets out a breath. Okay. He steps into darkness.

**ꟷ**

He stares open mouthed as he takes in the Batcave. He hadn’t had time to really see it last time. The Batcave is like built like the skeleton of a colosseum with metal rings that go up to another level. It. Is. So. _Cool_. _Wait, was that the Batmobile?_ He presses his face against the windshield to look inside. _Oh! The Batwing! Where did Batman get a T-Rex from?_

“Enjoying yourself, Kent?”

Jon freezes with his hand hovering in front the leg of the T-Rex. Damian steps out from the shadows. He wonders if that’s a thing that the Bat family has to perfect in order be considered a Wayne.

Damian’s are eyes like hard cut jade. “Unfortunately this isn’t a fieldtrip. Let’s see what it means to be the son of Superman.”

**ꟷ**

Jon dodges a kick to his knee and gets clipped in the side by a fist instead. He lets out a grunt, bringing up an arm to block the punch. He grabs Damian’s forearm and flips him over his shoulder. Damian twists in the air, hits the ground on his feet, and kicks Jon in the back. He hits the floor hard enough to taste blood.

He leans his sweaty forehead against the cool metal and pants.

“That’s all? Wet cats put up a better fight, Kent. What has your father been teaching you? Other than to be pathetic.”

Jon has Damian by the collar, lifting him up until Damian’s on his toes. “Don’t _ever_ talk about my dad like that.”

Damian’s grin is sharp edged. “Finally found your bite, Hayseed?”

Alfred steps out of the corner where he’d been watching and stares them down. “Master Damian, Master Jon. Perhaps it is time for a break.” It is not a suggestion.

Jon lets go of Damian’s shirt and takes a step back.

**ꟷ**

He’s left alone in some entertainment room where one wall is just a TV screen with speakers embedded into the wall. The walls are a diluted blue. The carpeted floor is a pale grey that is soft underneath his feet. The black leather sofa cushion sinks under his body. The windows overlook a huge pool with clear water. He fiddles with his hands on his knees, frowning. He’s fingers itch to feel the familiar skin of his shoulder.

“Has Bruce finally started to adopt Kryptonians?” Jon looks over his shoulder and there’s a man leaning against the door frame. Strands of his black hair swept against his forehead. He’s dressed casual, in a way that no one in the manor is, with a blue zip up hoodie, a black leather jacket, and black jeans. He looks like a Wayne though, dark hair and light eyed. His blue eyes are amused. “I’m sure your dad wouldn’t approve, though.”

“ _Nightwing_.”

“Dick Grayson, actually,” Dick says with a wink, as he walks into the room to stand behind the sofa. His smile is warm.

Jon turns over, gripping the sofa tight. “I’m Jon Kent. Jonathan Kent‒Jonathan Samuel Kent.” The words tumble out in a nervous chattering of words.

Dick holds out his hand, and Jon shakes it, probably with a little too much strength. “Nice to meet you, Jonathan Samuel Kent. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

Something warm flutters and settles in his stomach. “Really?”

Dick nods. “Of course. You’re the famous Jon Kent. The boy who ripped off the barn doors when he was just two.”

“You _know_ about that?”

Dick laughs. “Your dad loves to tell us stories about you. I’m just glad I finally get to meet you.” Jon ducks his head. “We’ll get to know each other more because you’ll be around a lot.” Dick presses his hip against the sofa. “Apparently, everyone gets their own Kryptonian expect me.”

Jon slams his hands against the leather making it sound like a whip. Dick’s eyebrows shoot up. “I’m not Damian’s!” Jon wrinkles his nose. “He’s a jerk! And he’s mean! And, and he’s a jerk! I don’t wanna work with him anymore.”

Dick frowns. _Well, Damian never makes a good impression anytime he meets someone…no matter how many times he meets someone._ “…Damian needs time to get used to you and you to him. You need to be patient; he’s not used to all of this.”

“Why not?”

His eyes grow darker. “He’s been alone for along time. He’s never really been around people his own age.” Dick’s eyes pin him. “Give him time. I know you fought with your dad to work with him. Let Damian prove that you’re right.”

Jon bites his lip. “…Okay.”

Dick ruffles his hair. “Awesome. If it doesn’t work out you can always be my sidekick.”

“ _Really?_ ”

“Nightwing and Superboy,” Dick says as he nods his head, “sounds nice.”

He’s already imagining him and Nightwing standing on top of a gargoyle, backlit by a cathedral window as they look over Gotham. His cape will flow behind him majestically, the wind will mess his hair, and Nightwing’s escrima sticks will glow blue in the night. Dick watches in amusement as Jon daydreams. Jon will be good for Damian. Damian won’t see it that way but someday, someday it’ll be different.

**ꟷ**

He finds Damian in the manor’s gym, punching a sandbag in a tempo of sharp, lethal jabs. There’s control and accuracy to his movements. A precision that Jon doesn’t have. Jon stands by the weight bench unsure of what to do.

“I know that you don’t want to do this, but we have to. We’re partners now.”

The punches change rhythm from a double jab to a cross and to a jab, left uppercut and back to a jab.

“We can help each other.”

Damian punches the bag so hard that it swings on the hook. He turns to meet Jon’s gaze. His eyes are cold and empty. Jon curls his fingers into the hem of his sweater. “You could never help me, Kent. All you are is a burden that will hold me back from my destiny. A burden that I had no choice to accept. I will work with you, fine, but do not ever think we are partners or equals.”

“You don’t know that until we‒”

One side of Damian’s lip quirks. “I know that you are a boy who had so much power that you never learned to control it because you were scared. You had all that power and you let it rot. Never once did you try to control it.” Jon’s fists turn white from his grip. “A scared, little boy is all you are. What good could you possible be?” Damian turns back to sandbag. “Go back to your farm, Kent. That’s where you belong. Leave this to people who are meant to be heroes.”

**ꟷ**

Jon pulls his blanket all the way over his head at night, curled up into a ball. Do not let the words hurt. Do not let them burrow. Do not cry. He’s going show Damian just what kind of hero he can be. He’s going to make Damian regret everything.

In the morning, he walks downstairs in resolution. His dad is leaning against the counter, watching the sun start to rise in golds and oranges that spill on the long, thick clouds on the skyline in his blue checkered boxers and undershirt.

“Dad.” Clark turns to him. Jon straightens up and meets his dad’s gaze. “I want to start training again.”

Clark stares for a long moment. “What brought this on?”

He doesn’t look away. “I can’t keep being afraid of what I can do.” Damian’s words are still there, echoing. “I can’t be a hero that way.”

Clark nods. “Alright, we’ll start again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damian's a dick, huh. Jokes on him because he's gonna be whippeeeed. I promise that this  
> will become grossly fluffy eventually. 
> 
> Please do comment if you liked what you've read or want to say anything!


	3. Not Quite Yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s going so slow.”
> 
> “It’s going to take time. Control takes time and patience. If you try to rush it will do no good.”
> 
> “I wanna go on missions already. I don’t wanna keep holding Damian back.”
> 
> “If you go unprepared you’ll end up holding him back more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason why the chapters are short is because this was actually supposed to be a oneshot, but it got too long so I had to break it up. My word document is like 29,000 words and rising, and I haven't even started to worry about the time skip. o_o (oh boy)

**Chapter Three: Not Quite Yet**

He goes to the manor again. Alfred greets him at the door with a brief grin of approval. Damian narrows his eyes when he sees him. Jon smiles at the annoyance he picks up. “Well, let’s get started with training.”

He doesn’t give up. Not when Damian hits him so hard that he’s sure something breaks, or when Damian spits barbed words looking for something to sink into. He bounces back each time, pushes back against the pain and lets the words latch on to his skin and picks them out after. Damian’s frustration grows and grows. He keeps coming back and back again.

**ꟷ**

He’s leaning against a wall in the Batcave, holding his aching ribs. When he opens his eyes, Damian is glaring down at him.

“Why do you keep coming back?”

There are so many answers he could give. None of them are right for now, so he says, “Heroes don’t give up.”

“You aren’t a hero,” Damian throws out.

“I’m going to be someday.” It is an undeniable truth.

Damian’s jaw twitches, but he doesn’t reply. He watches Damian stalk away. Once he’s sure that he’s gone, Jon unzips his suit enough, so he can trace the mark. Underneath the dark torrent of rage and frustration is a small fragment of respect. Jon grins.

҉

“Focus on the sound of your heartbeat first.” They are sitting on the roof of their home. Jon closes his eyes, slowing his breathing down. It’s faint, at first like tapping on wood, and then it grows into a strong thump. “Now, spread it out a little.” He can hear his dad’s heart. On the ground floor of their house a pen scratches against paper. He stretches it further. The cows in the barn chewing, the rustle of a mouse in the hayloft, and there’s a bird a mile away, singing. When he tries to go further than that, the sounds strain, becoming a clamor of harsh noise, and the control snaps.

He lets out a huff, slumping down. “I heard mom writing, the cows eating, a mouse in the hayloft, and a bird a singing a mile away.”

“That’s good, Jon. You’re further than last time.” Jon leans against his dad’s side, watching the wind brush against the strands of grass. Clark throws an arm over his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s going so slow.”

“It’s going to take time. Control takes time and patience. If you try to rush it will do no good.”

“I wanna go on missions already. I don’t wanna keep holding Damian back.”

“If you go unprepared you’ll end up holding him back more.”

Jon sighs. “I know.”

The land before them is a flat green for miles. A little bit away he can see rows and rows of fields that look like someone has raked their nails through the ground. The Cobbs farm is visible from here. Their silo rises up into the sky.

“How are things with Damian?”

Jon brings his knees to his chest so he can rest his chin on them. “A little better.” It is better. Damian doesn’t use his words like a weapon anymore. He taunts, but it never goes past that. “He’s still a jerk.”

Clark chuckles.

“Dad, can I ask you question?” The fabric of his jeans is rough against his chin.

“Of course.”

“Do soulmates always love each other?”

Clark’s forehead wrinkles. “I think that people like to make it a fairy tale. It’s a wonderful idea that there is someone out there made for you, but I think that it’s a choice whether or not you end up loving that person.”

“Why do we have marks then?”

His dad looks out over their fields. His gaze distant, “I don’t know. I’ve heard the stories of the gods and goddesses taking pity on humans who wept at their loneliness. I’ve heard a human is only half a soul and the mark leads them to the other half. I’ve heard of fate branding humans to each other. Of souls being entwined and separated. There are many stories.” Clark looks down at his son. “But you are the only one that gets to decide what that mark means to you.”

Jon sinks his teeth into his lip. “What if I don’t know?”

“That’s okay, Jon. You may not know for awhile and that’s fine.”

Jon burrows into his dad’s side, watching the sun start to sink and bleed pink and pastel purple on to the horizon.

ꟷ

He gets better. Damian has to work harder to make his hits land.

ꟷ

He dodges Damian’s fist and blocks the kick he throws with an arm. He grabs Damian’s ankle with his other hand and when Damian tries to kick with his other leg, he jerks his head to the side to avoid it. Damian slams his forehead against Jon’s nose. Something cracks. He keeps his hold of Damian’s leg and grabs his shirt, using it to toss Damian. Before Damian's feet touch the ground, he punches Damian in the stomach, sweeping his feet out. Damian hits the floor. Jon braces an arm across Damian’s throat, putting his weight down on Damian’s stomach.

Drops of blood splatter onto Damian’s cheek. “Pretty good for a farm boy, huh?” He draws back at the smirk that appears on Damian’s face. “Wait, why are y‒”

There’s a click and a cloud of smoke starts swirling around him. He can’t close his eyes quick enough to escape it. His vision becomes hazy, and he can’t breathe. He rolls off Damian, coughing.

Damian’s blurry image squats down next to his head. “Villains don’t play fair, Kent.”

His eyes and throat burn. “Cheater.” He hears footsteps as Damian walks away. Jon swipes at his eyes. It feels like he’s got glass in them. He flinches as a wet cloth is slapped to his face.

“Wipe out the blinding gas from your eyes.”

It takes five minutes for him to see more than the outlines of things. The cloth in his hands is pink. “You cheated because you’re a sore loser,” he accuses.

Damian crosses his arms over his chest. “If you expect villains to be honourable then you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”

“You can say whatever you want, but we both know that you did that because you didn’t want to lose.” Jon smirks. “I’m getting closer and closer to kicking your butt, and you’re scared now!”

“Say that again.”

“You’re scareeeed,” Jon sing songs. He rolls out of the way when Damian snarls and jumps. He gets to feet. “You’re scared that this little farm boy is gonna kick your butt.”

“Take that back, Kent!”

Jon laughs, dodging a swipe of Damian’s fist. Dick leans his forearms against the railing and watches Damian chase Jon around the Batcave. Tim braces his back against the railing beside him. “I didn’t think he was able to be normal,” Tim mutters.

“He never had the chance, Tim. It’s good seeing him act like a kid.” Jon sticks out his tongue as Damian misses again. “They’re good for each other.”

“Don’t forget that kid has a body count.”

Dick frowns. “He’s different now.”

“Our pasts don’t ever stop affecting us. Just because you have a soft spot for him doesn’t mean you should forget what he can do or what he’s done.”

Dick stares at the side of Tim’s head. “We’re family, and you need to remember that.” Softer he says, “he’s trying, Tim. Give him a chance.”

“You need to remember that family is always your blind spot, whether it's Jason or Damian.” Tim’s eyes drift down to where Damian has pinned a giggling Jon to the ground. “It’s weird though, isn’t it?”

“What? Damian acting like real boy for once? Jon is a friendly kid. Even Damian can’t get away from that.”

Tim shifts. “Hm.” Damian still acts like a feral cat they picked up from an alleyway. Sometimes he wishes that they had just dumped him back into the same alleyway.

Dick shakes his head. “Sometimes I think you’re more paranoid than Bruce.”

“I’m not the one with contingency plans for every hero I’ve worked with.” _Well…he does have a few._

Dick tilts his head, forehead wrinkled as he turns to Tim. “Do you think he’s made contingency plans for us?”

“Of course he has. I think Jason’s is just Bruce staring at him in disappointment and telling him that he could do better and he expected more.”

Dick snorts. “Jason would rather take a bullet than ever deal with that.”

“Oh, Bruce knows.” Tim narrows his eyes as Damian clicks his tongue and releases Jon, stalking away. There is something _there_. It’s edging into his mind, not quite ready for him to grasp, not yet. He turns away. “Have you looked into what Bruce asked?”

Dick trails after him. “You mean that shady company that just popped up overnight? Yeah, I’ve looked up their addresses and there’s nothing there. No one has seen any movement in those buildings listed. When I broke in there weren't any signs of use.”

Tim hums. “Hm, I’ll keep an eye on their bank accounts to see if any money is moving. Whatever they’re doing in Gotham _it_ won’t be legal or good.”

Dick snorts. “When is it ever? I’ll ask Jason to see if he’s heard anything.” Tim waves to Dick’s retreating back. He’s about to leave himself when he notices Jon tug his shirt to fan himself. He catches the sight of black ink along his shoulder. Huh, he hadn’t thought that Jon would have a soulmark. He makes his way up to the ground floor of the manor. None of the alien races have soulmarks. Well, it’s not like it matters. It isn’t going to affect any of them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear what you guys think.
> 
> Also, ha! Tim, you are gonna be a surprised bitch.


	4. Strawberry or Chocolate?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Since you’ve shown some competence we can start going on patrol.” Jon lets out a squeal of glee and tackles Damian into a hug. Damian struggles, pushing him away. “What the fuck are you‒now your super strength works?! Get off me, Kent!”
> 
> Jon keeps holding on despite the vicious jabs to his kidneys because he can feel pride and respect pulse from the mark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what guys! The first few chapters and this chapter are better than ever because they have been betaed by my best friend Kat! (The same one who had to listen to me bitch and moan about this story....actually every story I have written) So, thank her for this because there would be no story if not for her and her slightly manipulating ways. 
> 
> Side note: Damian is creeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeepy

**Chapter Four: Strawberry or Chocolate?**

The first time he manages to beat Damian they are both surprised. He’s got Damian’s hands trapped against his sides, and Damian can’t throw him off his legs. They stare at each other, frozen. Damian closes his eyes, draws a deep breath, and drops his head back down. “You win.”

Jon jumps up and pumps a fist into the air. “Woohoo! I beat Robin! I kicked Damian Wayne’s butt!”

Damian tsks, sitting up. “I’ve beaten you 88 times.”

“Still kicked your butt!” Jon says, giddy and exhilarated. He can’t wait to tell his dad and Dick.

“Since you’ve shown some competence we can start going on patrol.” Jon lets out a squeal of glee and tackles Damian into a hug. Damian struggles, pushing him away. “What the fuck are you‒ _now_ your super strength works?! Get off me, Kent!”

Jon keeps holding on despite the vicious jabs to his kidneys because he can feel pride and respect pulse from the mark.

҉

There is something ominous about Gotham as it rises into the dark, blue horizon void of stars. Gotham curves around the waterfront in towers and skyscrapers that outline the sky with thousands of windows lit gold. The brand of the Wayne tower glows seafoam green in the late dusk. They are on the ledge of an old, disused, and abandoned clock tower. Jon closes his eyes. It’s different from Hamilton where there is a lingering stillness only broken by the sound of the grass brushing the ground, and the scuttle of mice. It’s louder here where he hears life beating throughout the city in the screech of brakes, the tap of footsteps, the rustle of clothing, and the chatter of voices. It’s _too_ much. The sounds clash together and break. He opens his eyes and finds Damian staring at him. The wind tugs at his cape and caresses his face. There’s something otherworldly about Damian as the shadows curl around him. 

“Ready, farm boy?

Jon rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. “I’m ready whenever you are, _birdbrain_.”

Damian’s eyes narrow behind his domino mask. “Don’t fuck up. We’re going to patrol three blocks from here. There has been a string of muggings and robberies around that area.” He grabs his grapple from his belt.

“Wait, how am I going to get across?”

The answering grin is feral. “Figure it out.” Robin launches his grapple, and _oh no he’s not_. Jon jumps up onto Damian’s back. Damian stumbles. “What are you doing, Kent?!”

Jon digs his chin into Damian’s shoulder and tightens his grip. “Code names,” he tuts, getting comfortable. “You told me to find a way and I did.” Damian scowls.

“I’m going to drop you,” Robin threatens.

“No, you’re not.”

“TT.” Damian puts one hand behind him to steady Jon before jumping off. The ground rushes toward them before they swing through the air and Gotham blurs. Jon hides a smile into Damian’s shoulder.

ꟷ

They drop down into an alleyway that smells of sickly rot and decay, lined with tall plastic garbage cans along the red brick walls. There’s a rusted fire escape that leads up to the apartment building. He follows Robin up to the third level of the fire escape and ducks down next to him.

Damian keeps his eyes on the row of stores across the street. Jon tries hard. He shifts, working out a cramp in his leg. At the warning side glance Robin gives him he stops tapping his fingers against the railing.

He tries really hard to stay still. He does. Honest.

“…So, what are we doing?”

Robin’s cheek twitches. “What do you think we’re doing?”

“I don’t know, that’s why I asked. You haven’t told me a lot.”

Robin’s jaw clenches before he forces it to relax. “The robbers have been targeting jewelry and pawn shops around Gotham. Judging by their break-in pattern, they’ll target these stores tonight.”

“Oh.” He closes his mouth and focuses on the street in front of them.

ꟷ

He manages twenty minutes before he gets bored. He ends up sitting cross legged on the criss-crossing metal that digs into his skin. He holds up his chin with his hand. “This is boring.” When Robin ignores him, he whines harder. “Robin, this is boring. Robin. Robin. Roooooobin.”

“What?” Robin snarls, whipping his head to look at him.

Jon pushes out his bottom lip. “I’m bored. Talk to me.”

“No.” Robin turns back to the street.

“Robin. Robin.” Damian doesn’t acknowledge him. “Robin.” Still nothing. “Robin.”

“If you keep talking I’m going to rip out your tongue.”

He lasts a minute, picking at a stray thread from his jeans.

“Robin.”

Damian stiffens. The rusted metal of the railing creaks under his grip. “What?”

“Talk to me.”

“Fine,” he grits.

Always works. “Where are you from?”

“Why do you need to know that?”

Jon shrugs. “I’m curious. Where are you from? And you can ask me questions too.”

“I know everything about you already. What more could I want to know?”

Jon’s brows wrinkle. “How? All we do is beat each other up. You can’t know a lot about me from that.”

Damian arches a brow. “What do you think I was doing before I kidnapped you?”

What? Where was Damian going with this? “I don’t know?” he says unsure. At Damian’s bland expression, he mulls it over. “Wait…were you _watching_ me?”

“Yes. I have a file compiled on you.” There is no shame or guilt in the words.

Jon draws back. “That’s so creepy.”

“It is not creepy. It is strategic. My father has files on every hero.”

His dad did warn him about the odd habits of the Waynes. That does nothing to prepare him for this. Jon leans his back against the guard rail. “…Were you watching me all the time? Even when I was _asleep_?”

“Not all the time.”

So, sometimes. Jon hugs himself and stays quiet. He wonders what’s creepier, that Damian’s been stalking him for who knows how long or that no one picked up on it.

The silence lingers.

Damian tsks. “I’m part Arabian, but I was born in Tibet.”

“Oh.” That explained why he had a black scrub robin on his shoulder.

“It was cold.”

“Okay?”

Damian’s teeth grind together. “It snowed. A lot.” _Oh_. This is Damian trying.

“…Do you miss it?”

There is a sharp spike of hate and anger. He stomps down the urge to flinch.

Damian’s expression darkens. “No, there is nothing to miss.”

It’s the same feelings that existed before the mark changed. He rolls his shoulder.

“Do you like Gotham?” he diverts.

The expression bates. Jon rubs his shoulder in relief. “Gotham is my home.” A familiar warmth spreads from his shoulder to his collarbone driving away the spike. _Home. Belonging. Hope._ He doesn’t have time to think about Damian or his mark because glass shatters and an alarm screams into the night. Damian is swinging off the fire escape and running down the alleyway. Jon follows after him. Damian already has one masked robber on the ground. He grabs the wrist of another and throws him over his shoulder. Another comes from behind him with a knife. Jon throws himself against him, twisting his hand until he drops the knife. Damian kicks another in his knees until he goes down and then aims another kick to his temple to knock him out. Jon’s head snaps as he hears a click. _Gunpowder_.

“Get down!”

Damian ducks as he lets out a stream of ice. There is a curse, and the clatter of metal. Damian throws out a batarang. It hits flesh. There’s a thud.

Jon steadies himself against the brick wall and wills his heart rate to slow down. He looks over to where Damian is tying up the robbers.

Damian looks up. “Guess you’re not useless after all.”

Jon puffs out his chest. “Told you that we’d be able to help each other out.”

“Hm.”

ꟷ

The police lights paint everything in blue and red. Glass crunches under his shoe as he waves to the police car pulling away. He turns to Damian leaning against the wall, observing him, hidden by the shadows so only his mask peeks out. “What’s next?”

Damian raises a brow. “You go home.”

“What? We just started patrolling! I’m not going!”

“You are. Your father will be at the manor in an hour to take you home. I’ve let Alfred know to pick you up. Go home.”

“What about you?”

He shrugs. “I’m going to keep patrolling.”

“That’s not fair!” Jon stomps his foot. “How come I can’t stay?”

One side of Damian’s mouth tugs up. “Because little children need their rest in order to grow.”

“Well, you need it more than me.”

Damian scowls, straightening up. “I am the average height for a thirteen-year-old.”

Jon tilts his head and blinks. “Who said anything about your height?”

“TT. You are still going home. You promised your father that you’d be back by 11:30 pm.”

He had to bargain his way to 11:30 pm by telling his parents that crime usually happened at night in Gotham. If he’s late he won’t be able to go on patrol again.

He pouts. “Fine, but‒”

“But?”

“ _But_ we’ve got to celebrate our first patrol together. Come on.” Jon grabs Robin’s wrist and yanks him down the street.

“No, we will not. Unhand me right now.” Damian tries to wrench his wrist free. “How does your super strength only work when you want to get your way?” Jon drags him along, past the jewelry, antique, and pawn shops, looking around for a place to go to.

“I’ll treat you. I brought my allowance.” He brightens when he notices an ice cream shop. “Oh, let’s get ice-cream.”

The bell above the door jingles as they enter. Orbs of glass hang down from the ceiling, the stone walls are painted white, and the hardwood floor is cinnamon brown. There are similar coloured tables and chairs on the left and right sides of the shop. At the back of the store is a display case laden with a rainbow assortment of ice-cream and gelato, above the case is a chalkboard listing the flavours. A teenaged boy and girl both poke their heads out from the back room. The girl has her red hair pulled into a bun that spills out from her black visor. Her green eyes are lined with thick, black eyeliner. The boy bends down a bit, so he doesn’t hit his head on the door. His visor covers his eyes. They are both wearing black aprons covered in sticky chocolate sauce. Jon pulls Damian up to the case. The girl and the boy face each other and hold their hands flat out in front of them. “Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!”

The boy groans as the girl slams her fist over his scissors. “Ha, suck it!” She skips over to the cash register as he puts on gloves.

“Hello!” Jon says, bouncing on the tips of his shoes.

“Hey kid, what can I get you?”

Jon taps his finger to his lip as he reads through the flavours. “Can I please get two scoops of summer strawberry on a waffle cone?”

“Sure thing. And you?” the boy asks Damian.

Damian’s nose wrinkles. “Nothing.”

Jon shakes his head. “No, you have to pick something. Come on.” When Damian makes no move to order anything, Jon tries again. “If you pick something I’ll go home right after we finish.”

Damian sighs. “A coffee.”

“No! Pick something better. A coffee is lame, and my dad says it stunts your growth.” Jon pauses and leans closer. “Is that why you’re so short?”

“I told you that I’m‒”

“Yeah, yeah.” Jon skims the list of flavours. “He’ll have two scoops of the midnight chocolate chaos on a sugar cone please. You go get the ice cream, I’ll pay.”

The girl punches in their order. “That’ll be $12.75.” Jon digs into his pocket and pulls out a crumpled twenty. When she hands him back his change, he puts four dollars into the tip jar. The girl smiles. “Aw, aren’t you just a sweetie.”

Jon beams and waves to the two shopkeepers. “Bye, have a goodnight.”

He takes his cone from Damian as they walk out of the store. They end up sitting on the curb in front of the store. Jon closes his eyes to the taste of the cold, creamy sweetness of strawberry. “Oh, this is good. How is yours?” His grin dissipates when he notices that the ice cream has started to melt and Damian hasn’t eaten any of it. “Do you not like chocolate? Do you want mine instead?” he offers, already holding out his cone to Damian.

“No. I told you I didn’t want anything. What is the point of this?”

Jon goes back to licking his cone. “There isn’t a point. I just wanted to celebrate and hang out.”

He can feel the sharpness of Damian’s gaze on the side of his face. “Why?”

He twists his cone, catching all the melting ice-cream. “Because I want to get to know you and this is what partners and friends do.”

Damian snorts. “We aren’t friends and there isn’t much to know.”

Jon bites into his cone. “Of course there is, and there is so much about me you don’t know yet.”

“You aren’t that complicated.”

Jon fights the temptation to shove Damian’s face into his ice cream cone. From the corner of his eyes he can see Damian finally start to eat his ice-cream. There is a slight uptick to the edges of his mouth. Jon finishes his cone. He leans his weight back on his palms and looks up at the sky.

It looks broken. He’s used to the visible trails of galaxies back in Hamilton—not the brief splatters of stars in Gotham. He wonders if Damian has ever seen a full night sky before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the fluff STARTS NOW.


	5. I think I may have Misheard?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damian spears an apple onto his fork. “Kent talks too much, he moves too much, and he’s too loud. He has much to learn.” He eats his apple slice, slow and thoughtful. He shrugs, picking up a strawberry next. “But it was adequate.” Tim chokes on his coffee. Dick’s sandwich falls from his limp fingers, splattering back onto his plate into a mound of bread, eggs, lettuce, and tomato.

**Chapter Five: I think I may have Misheard?**

The sun is starting to creep into the night sky, spilling weak orange light into the kitchen. Dick sprawls across the kitchen island, pressing his forehead against the cool, white marble counter. His head pulses with anger. Bruce ruffles his hair as he passes. “Fever?” he questions.

“No, I got thrown into a building by Ivy’s evil plant children,” he mumbles into the counter.

He hears the opening of a kitchen cupboard, and the rattle of pills. Bruce places them by his head next to a glass of water.

“Thanks.” He fumbles with the childproof cap and swallows two extra strength ibuprofens before putting his head back down onto the counter. Tim stumbles into the kitchen, squinting at them. His blue cotton sleep pants low on his hips. There is a faint imprint from his mattress on the left side of his face.

“Coffee?”

Bruce slides the coffee beans across the kitchen counter until they stop a centimeter from the grinder. “Start the pot since none of us make it right.”

Tim shuffles over to the beans. “You make weak ass coffee.”

“We make weak ass coffee because we don’t want our hearts to give out,” Dick explains. “Can you make me a mocha?” Tim nods, starting to measure out the beans.

“Really Master Bruce, if you were hungry you could have called me,” Alfred says as he pushes Bruce out of the way.

“I can toast some bread for breakfast,” Bruce mutters amused as Alfred snatches the bread from his hands.

“Toast is not enough for breakfast. I’ll make egg sandwiches for you.” Alfred takes out two pans from the bottom cupboard putting them on the stove before going to get the rest of the ingredients from the fridge. As Alfred whisks the eggs, the pills have finally started to work enough that he can get up and start setting up the table. Tim hands them their coffees and puts Alfred’s next to the stove. They sit down at the island.

“Has Damian come back yet?” Dick asks. He inhales the chocolate aroma steaming from his mug.

Bruce takes a sip of his coffee. “Not yet, he’s due back soon.”

Tim’s mind strays to the puzzle he has yet to figure out as he scoops out the ground beans. He wonders what insight he’ll gain from Damian’s patrol. That isn’t something he can focus on now, though. “Bruce, the company that you told me to look into has had some movement.”

Bruce frowns. “What kind of movement?”

“They got a deposit of two million with no trace as to where it came from or what it was for. I tried to trace it back, but there was nothing to trace it back to.” Tim pours water into the machine. “It’s listed as a tech company, but it hasn’t actually made any tech. So, I dug a little more, and it’s actually a branch of one of the main weapon’s suppliers in the world.”

“Hephaestus.”

Tim nods. “Yeah, they are rather indiscriminate about who they sell to, from police departments, to warlords, and even CADMUS.”

Dick’s brows furrow downward. “What are they doing in Gotham?”

“Either they’ve been hired by someone here, or…” Tim meets their gaze, “they're hiding something here."

Bruce rubs his mouth. “If they're going through such lengths whatever it is must be important. Tim, I want you to keep watch on their accounts and on any digital or electronic movement within the company. Dick, you keep canvasing but spread out more and look for unusual movement, and I’ll do the same.” 

Both of them nod.

"I’ll let Jason know to keep on guard,” Dick adds.

It’s small. It’s an insignificant thing, but Bruce’s hand twitches against his mug. Alfred stares down at the pan in deep concentration. “Do what you think is best,” is all Bruce says. Dick sighs and honestly what did he expect? It’s not like the Waynes are known for healthy emotional responses to anything. Tim sides his cup out from under the machine, avoiding the awkward air in the kitchen by ignoring it.

ꟷ

The eggs are sizzling in the pan when Damian arrives. He pulls off his gloves, untying his mask. “Father, Grayson, Alfred,” he greets, taking a seat at the table.

“Forget someone, Damian?”

“Not anyone who matters, Drake.” He fills a glass with orange juice.

Alfred balances four plates on his arms laden with fruit and sandwiches. He sets them down before them.

Bruce cuts his into half and then into smaller pieces. “How was your patrol, Damian?”

Dick perks up, sandwich hovering before his mouth. “Oh yeah, last night was your first patrol with Jon. How did it go?”

Damian spears an apple onto his fork. “Kent talks too much, he moves too much, and he’s too loud. He has much to learn.” He eats his apple slice, slow and thoughtful. He shrugs, picking up a strawberry next. “But it was adequate.” Tim chokes on his coffee. Dick’s sandwich falls from his limp fingers, splattering back onto his plate into a mound of bread, eggs, lettuce, and tomato.

Bruce hums, watching his son. “Was it?”

“I think it went more than well as you two shared ice cream at the end,” Alfred adds from the stove.

Dick holds up his hand, trying to understand. “Wait‒you did what?”

Damian clicks his tongue, picking up his own sandwich. “Only because Kent wanted to celebrate his first patrol and wouldn’t leave otherwise.”

“And how was it?” Bruce prods seeming disinterested but not letting his gaze stray. Tim himself stays quiet, shielding his face behind his mug.

“It was fine.”

Bruce’s eyes warm, a small smile gaining on his face, as he nods. Dick’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh my god, my baby brother made a friend.”

Damian’s face morphs into disgust. “I did no such thing, Grayson. If anything Kent is my minion.”

Tim shrugs. “Sounds more like he made you do things, so isn’t it the other way?”

“You want a stab wound to go with your breakfast, Drake?” Damian threatens, twirling a butter knife between his fingers.

Dick laughs, getting out of his seat and pulling Damian into a side hug. “I’m so proud of you for making an effort.”

Damian tries to duck out of the embrace. “Cease this at once, Grayson! I am not making an effort! Especially not with Kent.”

Tim dodges an elbow, protecting his coffee. His gaze strays to Bruce who keeps eating. There’s always an end game with him. He assumed that the partnership was made so that Jon and Damian would balance each other out and grow, maybe even become friends. No, that’s too easy. Bruce’s plans are never that uncomplicated. He’s missing _something_. _Something_ that he hasn’t seen yet. Bruce raises a brow at him. Tim shakes his head and finishes his coffee. He’ll figure out it, eventually.

ꟷ

Jon yawns, stretching his arms before plopping back down onto his bed. He rubs his face against his pillow. He smells butter melting and milky sweetness. He follows his nose down into the kitchen. His dad is by the stove in his boxers with an apron over his undershirt. “Oh, smiley face pancakes!” He hops into his chair and pulls his plate closer. The pancake has a banana smile, two chocolate chips for eyes, and a nest of whipped cream as hair. His mom pours him a glass of milk, kissing his cheek in passing. Once everything is set, his dad comes to the table with a plate filled with pancakes. He lets Jon devour them in a mess of whipped cream and chocolate sauce before speaking. “How was your first patrol?”

Jon puts down his glass. A milk mustache coats his upper lip. “Oh! Dad it was awesome! We caught a gang of robbers, and Damian did this thing where he tossed one robber over his shoulder. I don’t know how he did it, but I wanna learn to do it. I used my freeze breath! And then we went for ice cream to celebrate.”

Clark swallows his coffee wrong and coughs, thumping his chest. Lois fans her mouth after her sip of too hot coffee. “Sorry, you did _what_ after?”

“We went for ice cream! I got strawberry and Damian got chocolate. Don’t worry, I used my allowance.”

 _Damian Wayne?_ Lois puts down her cup, leaning closer to Jon. “Damian wanted to?”

“Well not at first, but I got him to agree and we had fun.” Jon grabs more pancakes, slathering them with chocolate sauce. “I think we’re going to be okay even if he still is a jerk.”

Clark cleans up the splatters of coffee on the wooden table. “That’s great, Jon.” He’s glad that they are getting along even if he’s confused about what brought this sudden change.

Lois leans closer. The kitchen table digs into her stomach. “And what do you think of Damian?”

Jon puts down his fork and looks around before hunching forward. “You can’t tell him,” he whispers, “but I think he’s cool and awesome. He’s still a _jerk_ , but he’s going to be my best friend.”

His mom bites her lip to stop from smiling. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, he’s going to be my best friend.”

Clark goes to Jon. He brushes Jon’s hair from his forehead and kisses it. “I’m glad, you both could use a friend.” He hugs Jon, burying his nose into Jon’s hair. He hopes that’s true more than anything. He does. But there is something—a bit like fear, a bit like worry starting to eat at his stomach. He holds Jon tighter. _He hopes it’s true. He does._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at these cuties. LOOK AT THEM.


	6. The Sleepover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon crushes the juice box in surprise. “I’m staying the night?”
> 
> “A room has already been setup.”
> 
> Damian eyes him. “What’s wrong with you, Kent?”
> 
> He lets out a whoop, bouncing up. “Damian we’re gonna have a sleepover! We can stay up and watch movies! You can show me around the manor! I can see your room! We can play games! Damian, we have to play hide and seek!”

**Chapter Six: The Sleepover**

The next time they train, Damian leads them to the weapon’s vault. He stops in front of a metal door shaped like Batman’s symbol. He taps on the panel next to the door and keys in a string of numbers that reveals a hidden panel with a palm reader and a retina scanner. He presses his hand on the reader and leans closer to the scanner.

_Damian Wayne._

_Current Robin._

_Authorized._

_Access Granted._

The door slides open and lights flicker on. Behind screens of glass are stands filled with swords, staffs, escrima sticks, different types of Bat-o-rangs, gauntlets and drawers lined with guns, Bat-Bombs, flash-bang grenades, and smoke bombs. 

“Wow, is that a katana?” Jon reaches out to grasp it. Damian snags his wrist, pulling him away.

“Don’t touch it. You’ll only stab yourself with it.”

“I have invincibility!”

“You have it sometimes, moron.” Damian reaches over to the next case and grabs two wooden rods.

Jon wanders over to the Bat-o-rangs. “What are we doing here?”

“You’re going to learn how to use weapons.”

He picks one up, pretending to swing it. “Why?”

Damian takes it from him and hands him a staff. “Because every hero should be well versed in different fighting styles and techniques, especially one with such fickle powers as yours.”

Jon looks down at the weapon in his hand. “Your gonna teach me with a stick, though?”

“It’s Bo staff,” Damian says as he leaves the room. “If you think I’m going to let you use anything else when I’ve watched you trip over your own feet, you’re dumber than you look.”

Jon trails after him, dragging the stick behind him. “I didn’t trip over my feet. The ground was uneven.”

“I thought there was a rock.”

“That too!”

They stop once they reach the training mat. Damian holds the staff next to himself. “I don’t expect competence from you just something resembling adequacy.”

Jon narrows his eyes. “I was competent enough to beat you.”

“Once.” Damian moves so fast he doesn’t even see him until the end of the staff hovers right between his eyes. “Once is nothing.”

Jon bats it away, readying his staff. “Fine, I’ll beat you again and again then.”

ꟷ

He hits the mat, his staff rolling out of his grip. Damian slams his down next to his ear. Jon pants, fingers digging into the foam padding underneath him. This is the twelfth time he’s ended up on his back without getting one hit on Damian. “Now who’s beating who?” Damian taunts.

Jon hooks his foot around Damian’s ankle and yanks, toppling him over. He misjudges his strength, so Damian ends up on top of him.

Damian braces his hands on the ground by his head. “Really, Kent?”

His smile is sweet and innocent. Electricity buzzes under the skin of his shoulder. “You were the one that said villains don’t fight fair, remember?” Damian gets to his feet.

“Come on, we’ll go over the basics.”

He tries to weave the staff from side to side like Damian but only succeeds in whacking himself in the face. He rubs his reddening nose in frustration. He hears a snort. Damian’s smirking from where he’s gone through a series of different techniques. Jon grumbles and tries again, this time managing to hit himself on the forehead. _Ow_. Damian snorts again, but this time it morphs into a snicker. He touches his stinging forehead and realizes that he’s never seen Damian laugh.

“‒ent? Kent?”

“Huh?”

“Did you hit yourself so hard that you lost those two brain cells you had?”

“Shut up, Damian.” He goes back to trying to whirl the staff.

As they come up from the Batcave, Alfred is waiting for them in the study with a tray of juice boxes. Jon takes one, thanking him and immediately stabs it with a straw. Damian takes the other one. Jon coughs, looking away when Damian glares. “Master Jon, your father has informed me that he will be unable to pick you up today. There are Justice League matters that he has to attend to, so you will spend the night at the manor.”

Jon crushes the juice box in surprise. “I’m staying the night?”

“A room has already been setup.”

Damian eyes him. “What’s wrong with you, Kent?”

He lets out a whoop, bouncing up. “Damian we’re gonna have a sleepover! We can stay up and watch movies! You can show me around the manor! I can see your room! We can play games! Damian, we have to play hide and seek!”

Damian draws back, sneering. “We will do no such thing. I am not a child, Kent.” Jon deflates.

“Oh, so will you stop leaving your vegetables uneaten now?” Alfred questions.

Damian bares his teeth.

Jon blinks, looking up at Alfred. “Is that why he’s so short?”

“Most likely. Let that be a lesson, Master Jon, to always eat your vegetables.” Jon nods despite the threatening growl from Damian.

Alfred lowers his tray to accept the empty juice boxes. “It seems all that education has been a waste if Master Damian cannot see the tactical advantage of such a game, a game of stealth and hunting. I’m sure that one of the other Masters would see it, though. Shall we go and seek one of them out?” He guides Jon to the door with a hand on his shoulder.

Jon stumbles as he’s pulled through the door with a rough tug. Damian’s hand is tight around his wrist. He glances over his shoulder, and Alfred offers him a wink.

“We’ll play your stupid game, Kent, but it will be anything but childish,” Damian spits out, dragging him through the hallways. Jon says nothing and lets himself be led.

҉

“You can’t be serious.”

Damian offers him a bland face. “When am I ever anything but?”

Jon stomps his foot in frustration. “This isn’t how you play hide and seek, Damian!”

“And I told you, that I don’t play childish games. This will be a training exercise and Gotham will be the arena. We’ll test how good your tracking and stealth skills are.” Damian braces his back against a brick wall and closes his eyes. “You better start running, you’ve lost twenty seconds.”

Jon runs.

At least his superspeed is working today, he is a streak of blue and red through the crowds on the streets of Gotham. Jon’s eyes dart from side to side as buildings blur past him. No, he can’t hide in any of the stores because their windows all outlook the sidewalk. The alleyways are too creepy. Rooftops are a natural habitat for the Waynes. They probably have a map of all the rooftops of Gotham somewhere. He perks up when he spots a park and veers toward it. _Perfect_.

Hah, he’d like to see Damian find him here. Jon settles down on the branch of the tree he’d climbed. He’s surprised Gotham even had old and large oak trees or a big park like this. From his vantage point, he can see an artificial lake that stretches across the park dividing it into two. There is a bridge in the middle of it that leads to a large, red pavilion. He’s high up enough that anyone who looked up would not see him hidden by the labyrinth of jutting branches from below. “Robin’s never gonna find me.”

“I’m not going to what?”

Jon let’s out a scream and tumbles off his perch. He covers his face as branches and twigs snag at his skin. He hits the ground hard enough for his teeth to click. Next to him, Damian drops down with a soundless grace.

He rolls onto his back. Ow. Damian towers over him. “Really, that was the best you could do?”

“It was a good hiding place,” he defends, pouting.

“I could literally see you up there squatting like a stupid bird.”

 _Oh. Now that is embarrassing_. “How could you even see anything with your height?”

Damian leans down. “Make a joke about my height again and those extra two centimeters you have will be gone. Now, your turn to come and find me.”

He walks through the park, tapping his chin in thought. I _f I was Damian where would I hide? Somewhere dark and creepy_. He starts by checking out the alleyways, eyeing the shadows in suspicion, even looking into trashcans. He only finds a rather fat rat chewing on a discarded box and stinky trash. He walks down the streets of Gotham peeking into stores for any sight of Damian. He stops to help some kids get their cat down from a tree and goes to get a chocolate bar from a convenience store. He unwraps it, chewing it as he continues his search. He’s running out of places to check, and he can’t walk around Gotham all night. He lets the chocolate melt in his mouth. They didn’t say he _couldn’t_ use his powers. Jon finds a bench in front of a coffee shop. He closes his eyes and focuses like his dad had taught him. At first, there is too much noise, sounds clamor together in chaos. His head can’t fit them all. His hands clench. _Don’t panic._ _Focus_. _Find him_. He forces the other sounds to fade and latches onto Damian’s heartbeat. His eyes snap open. Damian’s heartbeat is clear as it resounds in his ears. _He did it! He actually did it! Wait, why was Damian so close?_ He follows the heartbeat and grows more confused when it backs up. He turns around and runs down the block. Damian trails after him.

 _Ugh, of course Damian wouldn’t play the game right. How is he supposed to find Damian if Damian isn’t hiding? He’s got to do something._ He stops in front of a Big Belly Burgers and grins as an idea forms.

He crawls out through the Big Belly Burgers’s washroom window hitting the ground in a tangle of legs. He runs down alleyways until he curves around the block behind the building that Damian is on. He has to be quiet. He climbs up the fire escape, poking just his head up to the roof. Damian has one leg braced on the ledge. A pair of Batnoculars in front of his face. “How long does a bathroom break take? He already had a tiny brain but a bladder too?” He pulls himself up onto the roof and tiptoes to Damian. He has his arms raised ready to pounce when a Bat-o-rang comes flying. He falls backwards, and he’s sure he loses a couple of strands of hair in the process.

“Huh, perhaps I underestimated you.”

Jon’s heart taps against his ribcage. “You almost took off my head!”

Damian squats down next to him and pokes at his forehead. “Don’t be stupid. I was aiming for your thick forehead. It would have been an incapacitation not a decapitation, and you ducked in time. At least our training is somewhat paying off even if it took you four hours to find me.”

Jon glares. “It took four hours because you weren’t playing the game right! You were supposed to hide!”

Damian smirks. “Oh, was I?” He gets up. “Come along, Superboy, Alfred is waiting for us and next time try to make it more of a challenge.”

There is a giddy burst of happiness. There’s going to be a next time.

ꟷ

When they get back to the manor, Alfred nudges them to shower after seeing the state of Jon’s dirt stained costume. He comes out wearing a too large Gotham Knights shirt and a pair of too long cotton pajama bottoms, that despite the fact he ties high up on his waist still pool around his feet. He ends up in a dining room where there are suits of armour spread out around the room and old family portraits of the Waynes, like the kind you’d see in museums, on the walls. There is a fireplace built from interlocking grey-white stone that is burning wood. A giant chandelier twisted from black metal spirals into rings and rings that hold candle shaped lights. In the middle of the room is a long, oak polished table with six chairs. There is an arrangement of white and red geraniums that sit in the centre. Damian is at the head of the table dressed in a black turtleneck and jeans. It’s odd seeing him out of his costume.

“You look ridiculous, Kent.”

Jon tries to roll up his right sleeve, so it doesn’t drape over his hand.

Alfred comes in, balancing covered trays in his hands. “I would have offered him your clothing, but I’m afraid that they wouldn’t fit.”

Jon sits down in a chair close to Damian and huffs. “I wouldn’t want your dumb clothes. They’d make me look stupid.”

Damian grasps a knife and a fork as Alfred sets down their dinners. “You always look stupid, and my clothes are too refined for your thin, reedy body, farm boy.”

“At least I can shop for my clothes in the big boy section.” Alfred’s lip twitches as he uncovers the trays. The smell of butter cooked vegetables and baked chicken fill the air. There is a scent of ginger and soy sauce from Damian’s plate.

Damian cuts into his tofu. “It’s unfortunate that the only thing you can be proud of is your height.”

Jon sticks his tongue out in retaliation before picking up his own utensils and starting to eat.

After dinner is done, Alfred brings out dessert. Jon straightens in his seat. “Apple pie!”

Alfred nods. “I thought a bit of home would be good.” He puts down two plates loaded with steaming pie and melting ice cream.

Jon shoves a giant piece into his mouth, smearing ice cream all over his mouth.

Alfred offers a sardonic brow while taking away their dirty plates. “I see you’ve finished all your vegetables, Master Damian, truly impressive. I shall inform the Gotham Times of this marvelous feat.”

Damian scowls, stabbing his pie with too much force.

“What’s next?” Jon asks once he’s done devouring his pie, trying to lick off the remaining ice cream around his mouth with his tongue. “Do you wanna watch a movie?”

Damian wipes his mouth. “Fine,” he says, sullen and disinterested.

“Come on, Damian we‒wait, fine?” He’s gaping, open mouthed and wide-eyed. “Did you just say yes?”

Damian folds his napkin, placing it on his empty plate. “Kent, we both know you’re going to annoy me into wanting to stab you. I’d rather do it outside of my home; it’s much easier to clean up. This way you’ll be quiet during the movie, and I’ll have my peace.” Damian pushes his chair back walking out of the room. “I get my own popcorn,” he calls back. Jon shakes himself out of his startlement and jumps to his feet after Damian. 

They end up in the entertainment room that Jon had first met Dick in. Damian is already sitting down on one end of the couch, leaning his elbow on the arm to support his chin, and next to him is a bowl of popcorn. The TV turns on, and wow, it’s like having your own movie theater. Jon covers himself with the fleece throw over the back of the couch. He pulls his feet up onto the couch. “What are we watching?” he questions as he shoves a handful of popcorn into his mouth. The Netflix icon comes on the screen, and Damian scrolls down until he reaches the horror section. He stops chewing, the kernels drying in his mouth. “H‒Horror?” he squeaks.

Damian eyes dart to him for a second before going back to the screen. “Scared, Kent?”

“Pft, no of course not.” He flinches at the scream that rings out.

“Then you’ll have no problem watching this.” Damian clicks play.

ꟷ

Damian is immune to jump scares, excessive amounts of gore, and terrifying CGI monsters. Jon is not. Jon is _really_ not. By the end of the movie, Jon is pale and shivering, gripping the blanket up to his chin. The end credits roll. There had been _So. Much. Blood. So. Many. Detached. Body. Parts._ Damian’s facial expression doesn’t change during the movie once.

“There is a sequel, Vampire Blood 2.” Damian presses play. _Great_.

ꟷ

As the final scene fades, Jon has wrapped himself in the blanket and spent most of the movie flinching, unable to look away from the carnage. He’s never going to be able to sleep again.

“‒ent. Kent.”

He lets out a screech as something touches his shoulder, falling off the couch. Damian blinks down at him. “Alfred has set up your room. I’ll lead you to it.”

“Okay,” his voice is high pitched and squeaky.

He shuffles after Damian into the dark hallway, glancing around uneasy and unsettled, so he doesn’t notice when Damian stops and runs into him. Damian turns his head. “Watch your feet, Kent. This is your room for the night. The bathroom is down the hall, next to the candle holder.” Once Damian is done, he turns and walks further down the hall melting into the shadows.

“Goodnight, Damian,” Jon says to his retreating back before going inside. The room is big, twice the size of his own. The walls are a pale blue, and the floor is a soft cream carpet that sinks as he walks on it. On the other side of the room are French doors that lead out into a balcony that overlooks the back gardens. In the centre of the room is a four-poster bed made from dark brown wood. He hesitates at the light switch. _It’ll be fine. It’ll be okay._ He flicks it off and runs to the bed, climbing into it and huddling into the blanket. He clenches his eyes shut. _It’s okay. He’ll be asleep soon._

He can’t sleep. He tries. He does. He turns from side to side, punches his pillow, kicks off his quilt, and pulls it back on, but he can’t sleep. The room is unfamiliar, and the darkness of it frightens him. His throat feels dry. He needs water. He draws the quilt onto his shoulders and pokes his head out of the room. The hallway is just a tunnel of endless black. He swallows. _Oh, no._ It takes him a few minutes to get his legs to move _. Down the hallway to the stairs. Down the hallway to the stairs_. He repeats. _The Wayne Manor does not have vampires lurking in the shadows waiting drink his blood. They’d probably be too scared of Damian_. He smiles at that. _Yeah, all the monsters would be too scared of Damian to ever come to the Manor. Damian is the scariest thing here._ He’s so lost imagining Damian frightening monsters that he isn’t paying attention to anything else so when a hand falls on his shoulder, he freezes.

“What are you doing here?” A voice rasps, deep and dark. “You shouldn’t wander by yourself.” The hand starts to pull him back. Jon shrugs it off and flees. 

Bruce watches him as he goes with sleep slackened eyes and an amused twist of the lips. Well at least Jon’s superspeed was working. He makes a note to have someone give Jon a tour of the manor.

Jon runs and runs and only stops until he reaches a dead end. His heart is too loud and tears are gathering. He’s lost. He takes in a shuddering breath, closes his eyes, and focuses on extending his hearing. It takes him a second to find Damian's heartbeat.

ꟷ

Soft moonlight comes in through the series of arched windows as he walks through the hallways. His quilt trails after him as the skeletal shadows cast by the limbs of trees scrape against the wall.

He stops in front of Damian's door, chewing his bottom lip. He pulls the quilt tighter across his chest and knocks. "Damian?" He tries again. "Damian?" Something creaks. He huddles into his blanket. _It's nothing. It's nothing. It's nothing._ He peeks over his shoulder and sees a shadowed figure move. He lets out a squeak and opens Damian's door, stumbling over his blanket as he rushes in. He braces his back against the door, shivering. Once his heart returns to normal and his eyes adjust, he goes over to Damian's bed and stops.

On the bed, Damian is flat on his back with his hands folded across his chest. _His dad would tell him if the Waynes were vampires, right?_ His finger shakes as he pokes at Damian's cheek. "Damian?" Damian's eyes snap open. Jon flinches back, tumbling over the end of his quilt.

Damian's head hovers over his. "Kent, what are you doing in my room?"

Jon sits up crossing his legs. He looks down at his lap. "I can't sleep in my room. C‒Can I stay here?"

Damian studies him for a minute before disappearing from view. Jon sighs, starting to get up when a pillow smacks him in the face. "You can sleep on the floor."

He buries his face into the pillow. "Thanks, Damian."

"Whatever."

Jon gets comfortable on the floor. He turns to his side. "Damian?"

"What?"

"You'd tell me if you were a vampire, right?"

There's rustling. Damian's head comes back into view. "What are you blabbering about, Kent?"

Jon folds an arm under his pillow. "You sleep weird like a dead person or a vampire. You know like vampires in coffins, on your back with your arms crossed over your chest. It’s weird…also kinda of creepy. Plus, your dad is _Batman,_ and you’re kinda of scary."

Damian pinches the bridge of his nose. "I don’t want to know how you arrived at any of this. I don't have time for this, Kent. Go the fuck to sleep."

_They were totally good reasons to wonder._ "Damian? Damian?" Jon sits up on his knees and finds Damian sleeping the same way. _Creepy._ He reaches out to poke his cheek again. Damian swats it away, glaring. "You didn't answer."

“I am not a vampire nor is my father, despite the name he has chosen and the costume he wears. If I was I'd have killed you already for being so annoying. Go to sleep."

Jon settles down. He lies there for a few minutes. "Damian?" he whispers. "Are you awake? Damian?"

"What?!"

His cheeks heat with embarrassment. "I gotta go,” he mumbles.

"Then go."

"It's dark, and I don't know where it is," Jon explains.

"…Are you scared, Kent?"

"It's dark! And your house is creepy," he defends.

There's a long sigh before Damian's bare feet hit the floor. "Get up, Kent."

Jon rushes to his feet. Damian opens the door and starts to make his way down the hallway. Jon grabs the edge of Damian's nightshirt. Damian glances over his shoulder. "It's so I don’t get lost." It's more because he scared, but Damian doesn't need to know that. Damian rolls his eyes but doesn't say anything as he leads them to the bathroom. When he finishes, Damian is leaning against the wall next to the bathroom with his arms crossed over his chest, waiting. He pushes himself from the wall, and Jon runs to grab his shirt. When he lies down, Damian’s heartbeat echoes in his ears and sleep comes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Cute.


	7. The Kent Family's Super Secret Pancakes

**Chapter Seven: The Kent Family’s Super Secret Pancakes**

Jon rolls to his side and snuggles into the pillow before lifting his head and squinting at his surroundings. Damian is sitting cross-legged on the bed. His chin is resting on his fist as his elbow is propped up on the edge of his knee.

“You snore.”

He rubs his eyes with his knuckles, trying to wipe the residuals of sleep from them. “I thought you weren’t going to be a weirdo and watch me sleep anymore.”

“I wasn’t watching you sleep. I was waiting for you to wake up. If you don’t want to eat then fine,” Damian says as he gets up and heads out.

Jon pushes the quilt off himself and runs after him. “No, Damian! Come back! I can’t find my way without you!”

The kitchen is empty. It is so different from the chipped counters, scuffed cupboards, and worn appliances of his home. Everything seems untouched, set up like a showroom. The greyish white counters gleam, the white painted cupboards bare no marks, and the silver appliances have no streaks on their surfaces. Damian picks up a note from the kitchen island skimming it over. “Alfred has urgent business and won’t be back until later. We are to prepare our own breakfast.”

“Okay, I can make the Kent family’s super secret pancakes.”

Damian scoffs. “Kent, do you honestly think I’m going to let you near a stove? I don’t even trust you to walk down a hallway. I’m not going to let you burn down my home.”

“Then what do you know how to cook?” At the silence that follows, Jon starts to roll up his sleeves. “I know how to make these because my dad taught me. It’s a family recipe that’s been in the Kent family for years and years. My dad learned it from my grandpa. I can’t mess them up.” His dad was usually behind him while he used the stove. He hasn’t _actually_ cooked alone, but he’s not going to tell Damian that.

Damian’s eyes follow him. “And why can’t we eat cereal like normal American children?”

Jon walks over to the fridge, pulling out the milk and eggs. “Because, Damian, there are rules to sleepovers, we have to do it right. After the sleepover, we are supposed to have an awesome breakfast.” He balances the milk carton on top of the eggs.

“I don’t care about your stupid rules. I am not letting you near the stove.”

“Not even for chocolate chip pancakes?” Jon tries, putting everything on the kitchen counter.

Damian leans his hip against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “If you think that is a bribe, we need to work on your negotiation skills.”

“If you can’t be bribed by chocolate chip pancakes that just means that you haven’t had good ones yet. Don’t worry, we’ll fix that.” Jon opens the cupboards, trying to find a bowl and measuring cups. He finds them in the second one he opens. “Come on, you’re here so nothing will happen.”

“ _Fine_ , but if you screw up once you can eat dry oatmeal for breakfast.” Jon nods, concentrating on trying to crack the eggs on the side of the mixing bowl. Gentle and slow. Gentle and sl‒the egg shatters into hundreds of pieces, leaving his hand slimy and wet. Damian watches the egg drip down from the counter.

“I guess my super strength is working today.”

ꟷ

They end up with a batch of pancakes at the cost of a clean kitchen. In Jon’s defense, his super strength was iffy, so that the flour bag that had torn and scattered flour like snow on both of them wasn’t _his_ fault. Slipping on the egg whites _maybe_ was his fault because his dad had always warned him to be careful and clean in the kitchen. He wasn’t hurt, though. Damian had grabbed the back of shirt to stop him from banging his head on the edge of the counter. The fact that Damian had hovered beside him with the fire extinguisher in his hands was insulting. He hadn’t even burned one!

He pretends to drink his milk, so he can watch Damian. It’s really small, but Damian stops for a second once the pancake touches his tongue before going back for another bite. The elegance of his table manners disappearing as he eats. Warmth settles into his stomach. Dick comes into the kitchen dressed in a white muscle tee and black boxers. His eyes are not fully open. He scratches his stomach, yawning wide enough to crack his jaw. He sniffs and awareness comes like a sudden spark. “Are those the Kent family’s special pancakes?”

Jon nods, his grin bright and happy. Dick grabs one and stuffs it into his mouth. “I haven’t had these in years.”

When Dick reaches for another one, Damian stabs his fork through it. “These are _mine_ , Grayson. You can have whatever is left.”

Dick swipes one from underneath the fork, rolling it up into a burrito. “Like your going to leave any, and I’m Jon’s favourite hero so of course he’s going to share with me, aren’t you, Jon?” he asks, winking.

“Yeah!” Jon pushes the plate closer to Dick.

Dick offers Damian a smug smirk. “Jon likes me better.”

“Kent likes everything, don’t be so flattered,” Damian says as he eats a strawberry.

Dick’s smirk only widens. He’s about to start on his third pancake when realization comes. “Wait, who let you near a stove?”

Jon wipes his milk mustache off with his forearm. “Damian.”

Dick’s head turns to his brother. “You let a ten-year-old near a stove?”

“Who let an eight-year-old fight crime?” Damian shoots back. Dick shuts his mouth. Damian slices his pancake in half. “Nothing happened. Everything is fine.”

“Yeah, Damian wouldn’t let me get hurt,” Jon chirps, scooping blueberries onto his plate. Damian’s fingers twitch against his utensils.

Dick glances from Jon, who is chasing around a blueberry on his plate with a fork, to Damian who frowns at his plate. He stays quiet. _This was going to be interesting_.

ꟷ

Bruce stops at the threshold of the kitchen, dressing gown tied to his waist and slippers on his feet. “Kent family pancakes?”

“I had to fight Damian for the last two. I almost lost a few fingers in the battle. If you weren’t down in the next minute I was going to eat it.” Bruce accepts the plate. Dick hands over a cup of coffee, sitting down with his own.

“If you keep talking Clark is going to show up just to make them for you. This house can only handle one Kent at a time.”

Dick stares into his cup while Bruce eats. “I don’t know what your planning. Tim will at one point, but he’s good for Damian.”

“Kents tend to be,” Bruce agrees. The click of his cutlery loud in the room.

“Good things don’t last for Waynes.”

Bruce hums, curling a hand around his mug. “This will. It is best not to interfere; they will make their mistakes and have their regrets, but they will grow together. Although childhood is short, I want Damian to have whatever is left of his.”

Dick let’s out a deep exhale. _He hopes so. He really does._

ꟷ

He goes to take a shower after breakfast. He steps out of the bathroom tracking Damian’s heartbeat back to his room. Maybe they can play another game or they can explore the manor. There has to be secret rooms‒what if there are treasures? The door to Damian’s room is open; he has a chance to see what the room looks like now. The walls are light grey. There’s a balcony on the other side of the room framed by dark, heavy red curtains that overlook the manor’s grounds. There are bay windows on either side of the balcony with window seats. A desk is pushed up against the left wall, on which stray coloured pencils and charcoal lie next to a stack of sketchbooks. On the other side is a simple bed that is more of a cot than a bed.

Damian is sitting on one of the window seats, reading a book.

“You can come in, Kent.”

“What are you reading?” Jon asks as he sits down next to Damian, leaning over his shoulder to look at the book. The words on the page are in an unfamiliar language.

“One Thousand and One Nights. It is a series of Middle Eastern folktales.”

“Do you have a favourite?”

“Not yet.”

Jon glances over at the desk. “Do you draw?”

“Yes,” Damian says as he flips a page.

“Can I look at your sketchbooks?”

Damian lifts one shoulder up and drops it. Jon takes it as permission and brings the stack over. He leans his back against the wall and opens one up. There are sketches of old, gnarled trees that end up blooming and coming to life in the next few pages, of birds hunting in grass, of cats perched on ledges, of flowers that droop from the weight of their heads. There is so much detail to the bark of trees, to the way the feathers settle on the birds, and the movement of the cats. _Wow._

“Did you mean what you said?”

Jon startles. “Huh?”

Damian doesn’t look up from his book. “At breakfast, you said that I would never let you get hurt.”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Jon frowns. “Why, what?”

“Why do you believe that?”

“Because you wouldn’t.”

Damian looks up from his book. “You don’t know anything about me, Kent. How can you trust me?” But he does know Damian, he’s _known_ Damian from the moment he was born—from the moment his skin was branded. _He knows Damian_. That’s not something he can tell Damian, but Damian’s gaze is searching, asking for an answer.

“I’m starting to and I like that person.” Jon smiles and knocks his shoulder with Damian’s. “We’re partners; we’ll have time to figure each other out.” _We’ll have time to figure this out._

Damian stares at him for a moment before turning back to his book. “That isn’t flattering as you think. I’ve seen you profess your love to instant noodles.”

“Noodles are great, Damian! All you need is hot water!”

“You’re an idiot, Kent,” Damian says, but there is a quirk to his mouth. There is something that flutters in the pit of his stomach, giddy and nervous. He goes back to the sketchbook still smiling.

Tim taps the back of head against the wall and sighs, looking up at the ceiling. _This is going to be a problem._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can they get cuter? Yes, they can.


	8. The Farm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We will always have to measure up to our fathers, Kent. If you want to be your own hero you will have to be better than him.”
> 
> The clouds start to drift and the moonlight crawls back in. He yawns, pulling the blanket over his shoulder. “Then we’ll be better than them.”
> 
> He’s falling closer and closer to sleep when Damian finally replies. “We?”
> 
> “Yeah,” he mumbles, eyes falling closed, “we’re going to be heroes together, Damian.”
> 
> As he’s drifting, hears Damian say, “That’s a long time, Kent. Are you going to be with me until then?” Which is stupid because of course he will. They’re always going to be together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a little late because I wasn't in the mood to edit, but here it is now.

**Chapter Eight: The Farm**

Things with Damian will never be easy, he knows. There is too much that Damian guards and hides about himself to ever make it easy to be his friend, but things do change. It becomes less of a battle to prove himself. The cold detachment that Damian holds starts to ebb little by little. Their patrols, that were once filled with a sullen silence, are filled with conversation now, and Damian puts less of a fuss when he suggests they go for a treat after they finish. They fight once when Damian pulls out his credit card and says that he has more money than Jon in his farm boy life can ever dream of, so he should pay. The only settle it when Jon crushes his card into a billion pieces and agree to alter paying, even if Damian mutters about stupid farm boys and their stupid principles. They spend time after their patrols on rooftops with Gotham underneath their feet. Sometimes when the clouds hide the moon, Gotham rises like a fortress around them lit by the hundreds of lights that never go out.

ꟷ

Gotham is a blur of neon lights and streaking wind from behind Damian’s back. The scratch of Damian’s hair against his cheek as they swing from building to building. He holds Damian tight as excitement fireworks in his stomach, grinning so wide that his cheeks ache. When their patrols are finished, he likes to bury his head into the side of Damian’s neck, dozing as they head back to the Batcave. Damian’s arm a brand across his back holding him steady.

ꟷ

He asks Damian once what he likes about Gotham.

The wind threads through Damian’s hair as his leg dangles over the edge of the rooftop, the other is braced against the ledge. Damian gazes out at Gotham; the shadows hiding his face. “The freedom of it,” he says.

Sometimes, Damian talks in fragments and shards when he ventures somewhere distant in his memories. The words are halting and slow as they cut across his shoulder, splintering like glass against his scapula. He digs his nails into his knee, so Damian does not notice his flinch. He focuses on the rough smoothness of his jeans and on the way the wind hits his skin in sharp bursts.

Jon can’t do a lot. All he can do is listen and pretend to not know more than what Damian tells him as the shards burrow deeper. He goes home and picks them out of his skin, collecting them, keeping them close even though Damian discards them because they are parts of him. They are what he has built himself from, and one day Jon will understand what it is that Damian hides between the fragments and shards. For now, though, he listens to whatever Damian can give him and taps the edge of their shoes together to remind Damian that he’s not alone as Gotham thrives and lives below them.

As time goes on, he starts to sleep over at the manor. He even has a room that becomes his. He doesn’t stay in it though. He sneaks into Damian’s room at night, settling into the nest of blankets that Damian makes on the floor next to his bed. Damian starts to stay up, waiting for him to come before sleeping. He always has an excuse. Financial reports to read, an art piece to finish, or an interesting book that he’s caught in. When Jon points out that Damian has read the same book three times, Damian throws it at his head.

At night, when the moon bathes everything in a silvery, white night and Damian’s eyes glow faint jade green in the darkness, they talk in whispers.

“Do you want to take your father’s mantle?” Damian asks once as the clouds conceal the moon and spread creeping shadows over the room.

Jon rubs his nose against the pillow. The scent of the readying earth before a coming rainstorm fills his lungs. “No. My dad is always going to be Superman and even though I am the son of Superman, I want to be my own hero.”

“We will always have to measure up to our fathers, Kent. If you want to be your own hero you will have to be better than him.”

The clouds start to drift and the moonlight crawls back in. He yawns, pulling the blanket over his shoulder. “Then we’ll be better than them.”

He’s falling closer and closer to sleep when Damian finally replies. “We?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, eyes falling closed, “we’re going to be heroes together, Damian.”

As he’s drifting, hears Damian say, “That’s a long time, Kent. Are you going to be with me until then?” Which is stupid because of course he will. They’re always going to be together.

ꟷ

The first time Damian says his name, Jon startles so bad that he bangs his head against Damian’s bed. Damian snickers. “Be careful Jon, you don’t have enough braincells that you can afford to lose any.

ꟷ

Damian introduces him to his pets. Before he meets Titus, Damian bends down and presses his forehead against the dog’s, holding on to his ears. He whispers something to him, staring into his eyes for a moment before turning to Jon. “Jon this is Titus.” He nods to Titus and looks at Jon. “Titus this is Jon.” Titus is massive. He reaches Damian’s shoulder and is black like a starless night.

Jon sits down and holds his hand out. “Hi, Titus.” Titus’s nose is cold against his palm. Titus leans closer and nudges his head against his shoulder before sitting down on his hunches. Jon reaches out and scratches his forehead. The edge of Damian’s mouth twitches as Titus’s tail sweeps against the floor. Jon cups the dogs face, leaning closer, earning a wet lick against his face. Jon giggles, ducking away from another lick.

ꟷ

Damian’s gaze is pinned on him. The cat’s tail taps against Damian’s arm. Its gold eyes latch on to Jon, steady and unwavering. 

Jon starts to take a step back as something cold and hard creeps into his stomach.

“Jon, come here,” Damian commands. _He can’t. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t_ ‒

Damian holds out his hand. “Come here,” he repeats softer.

His feet move until he’s standing in front of Damian. Damian clasps his shaking hand and guides it down to the cat’s back. He flinches ready to draw back, but Damian tightens his grip so Jon can’t. “This is Alfred the cat.” Alfred’s fur is soft and warm. The bones underneath his skin fragile. Jon runs his fingers down Alfred’s back, careful and slow. Alfred purrs, rubbing his face against Jon’s arm. The cat stretches up, placing his front paws on Jon’s chest. Jon reaches out and steadies Alfred’s hind legs and back as Alfred sniffs his face. His whiskers tickling Jon’s chin before his rough tongue scrapes against the edge of his jaw. Jon hugs the cat a little tighter, burying his face against Alfred’s side, his throat too tight.

ꟷ

One day, Damian leads him into the woods that surround the manor to a barn.

“Why would you need a barn?”

Damian pushes open the door. “For Bat-Cow.”

Jon blinks. “Bat-Cow?” he asks as he follows Damian inside. Do the Waynes just put Bat in front of everything? Is there toaster a Bat-Toaster? Are there Bat-Beds? The air is heavy with the must of hay and grass. They stop in front of a pen where a brown and white cow waits. “You have a cow.” Her ear flicks.

“We have a Bat-Cow,” Damian corrects while he brushes a hand down her snout. The brown fur along her eyes and ears does sort of resemble the bat symbol. Bat-Cow moos.

“Wait, so you’ve been calling me farm boy when you have a cow?”

“No, I’ve been calling you farm boy because of your simpleton nature. The animals had nothing to do with it.”

“Oh,” Jon nods. He stops. “Wait, did you just call me stupid?!”

Damian smirks. “I’ve never stopped calling you stupid.” Jon narrows his eyes and tackles Damian into a pile of hay. When they leave the barn, Jon can’t keep from grinning at the nest of hay stuck in Damian’s hair. It’s worth it even though he wants to scratch off his own skin from the prickles of hay after.

ꟷ

He rolls over on his stomach, hugging the pillow against his chest and asks Damian if he’s ever been to a sleepover.

Damian raises a brow, not looking up from the sketchbook in his lap. “I know your head has been knocked a few times during patrols and those two braincells might be damaged, but this is a sleepover, Jon. We’ve had many in the past months.”

Jon shakes his head. “No, I mean have you had a sleepover at someone else’s house?”

Damian swipes his pencil in long arches. “No.”

“Then do you want to come over to mine to have one?”

“No.”

Jon frowns. Damian didn’t even think about it. “Why not?”

“Why does it matter? We have sleepovers here.”

Jon gets up, crossing his legs over each other. “It’s not right. I can’t just sleepover here all the time, and I want to show you the farm. I want to show you where I grew up.”

Damian shifts his gaze over and studies his face before sighing. “Fine, Jon. I’ll come to a sleepover at your house.”

ꟷ

That’s how the following week a sullen Damian shows up at the farm, with his father and Dick, with a bouquet of white lilies and baby’s breath in his hands. Dick holds Damian by his shoulders as Bruce’s eyes crinkle in amusement.

“Clark,” Bruce greets.

Clark smiles back and nods his head. “Bruce. Dick. Come on in.”

Dick steers Damian inside. “Hi, Clark, we just wanted to make sure Damian made it.”

Damian’s expression darkens, his eyes narrowing and his nose wrinkling. “This is absurd. I am not a child, Grayson, that needs to escorted. I go on patrol by myself. I have bested villains twice my age and am far more skilled than you.”

Dick ruffles Damian’s hair. “You might not be, but it isn’t every day that my little brother goes to his first sleepover.”

Damian swats his hand away, muttering under his breath about sentimental fools. He straightens up when he notices Lois coming. “Mrs. Kent, it is lovely to meet you.” He holds out the flowers. “These are for you.”

Lois laughs and hands a cup of coffee to Bruce, accepting a kiss on the cheek from him, and hands the other to Dick before taking the flowers. “Thank you for the beautiful flowers, and it is lovely to meet you too, Damian.”

“You know Bruce wanted to bring you a gift basket instead?” Dick tells the Kents. “I had to talk him down to just flowers.”

“It would have been polite,” Bruce replies, taking a sip.

Clark takes the flowers from his wife’s hands and goes to the kitchen to find a vase. “Aw shucks, you didn’t have to bring anything, Bruce. We’re just happy to have you here.”

Lois leans down to Damian. “You should have seen Jon this week. He was so excited that he wrote a list of things he wanted to show you and then had us look at it.”

Dick laughs. “You should have seen Damia‒Ow!” Damian digs his heel harder into Dick’s foot. Bruce catches the cup that falls from Dick’s hand without spilling a drop. 

Clark returns offering Lois a cup of coffee, tilting his head to look up at the ceiling. “I wonder where Jon is. He spent all day by the window waiting.”

There are thuds as footsteps rush down the stairs. Jon swings into the room. “Damian! You’re here!” He squeezes past his dad, throwing his arms around Damian’s neck in a quick hug before grabbing Damian’s arm. He throws a greeting to Bruce and Dick as he disappears up the stairs.

Clark rubs his side, wincing. “I think Jon forgets he’s half Kryptonian sometimes. Would you two like to stay for dinner? I’ll be getting Chinese.”

Bruce shakes his head. “We can’t stay for long, Clark. We’ve got to head back to Gotham for a Wayne Enterprises Gala.”

“You’ve always got a gala going on, Bruce,” Lois says taking their empty cups to the sink.

“I have to show my face somehow.”

“Yeah, people at the company start to forget what Bruce looks like or who he is if he doesn’t hold these galas,” Dick replies.

“Another time?” Clark suggests walking them to the door.

“Another time,” Bruce agrees. “Also, I’ll pay for any damages that Damian causes.”

“If the house survived Jon’s toddler years it’ll survive Damian.”

Bruce raises a brow. “I’ll bring my chequebook when I pick him up.” He nods his head to them. “Goodnight, Clark. Goodnight, Lois.”

They watch Bruce’s retreating back. “Should we be concerned?” Clark asks.

Lois leans against the doorframe, wrapping her cardigan tighter. “Definitely.”

ꟷ

“And this is my room!”

“It’s cleaner than it usually is.”

“It is not,” he denies.

“You do remember I had you under surveillance for a number of months, right?”

Heat flushes into his cheeks. Okay, so he might have cleaned. Gotten all the dirty clothes that spent all their time underneath his bed or piled in corners into the laundry room, so that the oak floors are visible. His desk looks like a real desk rather than one built out of stray paper. “Shut up,” he mutters. Damian picks up the brown teddy resting against his pillow. He tugs at the Superman cape attached to its back. “That’s Ted-El.” When Damian looks up at him, he explains, “because he’s a teddy.”

“Ah, truly creative.”

“It’s a good name,” Jon defends.

Damian smirks and puts the bear back on the bed. “I hear you have a list for us today.”

“What? No.” Damian’s smirk grows. Jon shoves his hands into hoodie, crumpling the list. “I don’t have a list.”

Damian’s smirk remains fixed on his face. “What’s first on your list?”

ꟷ

He takes Damian to the cornfield where the stalks of corn rise into the sky. He cups his mouth. “Krypto!” Krypto’s head pops up from between the rows. “Come here, boy!” Jon plants his feet on to the ground to brace himself. “Stand back, Damian.”

“Why wou‒” A force of wind bends the cornstalks, picking up dust and pebbles. Damian throws his forearm over his face to protect himself from the debris. When he lowers it once the wind dies to find Jon 20 feet away, the ground scored. Jon holds Krypto as he wiggles in happiness.

He leads Krypto back to Damian. Krypto bounces next to him in excitement. He puts a hand on Krypto’s head, stilling him. Krypto sits down, tongue lolling out as he pants. “Krypto this is Damian.” Krypto looks from Jon to Damian, tilting his head. He lets out a soft woof. Jon nods. “Yeah, friend.”

Damian sits down and holds out his hand for Krypto to sniff. Krypto noses the hand, his tail starting to move. He lets out another woof as his tail starts to move faster. Jon grins. “Yeah, he’s Batman’s son.”

Krypto nudges his head under Damian’s hand asking for pets. Damian brushes his hand down Krypto’s head. “I am glad to make your acquaintance, Krypto.” Krypto gives Damian a relaxed smile, his tongue dangling out, going lax under Damian’s hand. Jon sits down next to Damian, watching the softness of Damian’s eyes, and the ghosting smile on his face.

ꟷ

The sun sits on the horizon dying the sky in a mix of orange diluted with pink. Krypto sniffs the edge of the chicken coop, sneezing and shaking his head when a feather tickles his nose. Damian blinks down at his hands. “It is so small,” he whispers. Damian runs his thumb over the chick’s head. “And soft.” Damian touches its beak. The chick nibbles at his thumb. When Jon hands him the other chicks, there is such amazement and bewilderment in Damian’s eyes that Jon can’t say anything. All he can do is watch the gentleness of Damian’s fingers as he trails them over the backs of the chicks.

ꟷ

After dinner, Jon picks up the backpack he’d left by the door pulling Damian outside with him. “Be back before midnight, Jon,” his mother calls from the door.

“Okay!”

Lois and Clark stand outside on the porch. Lois leans against Clark’s side. “I’m glad he has someone he doesn’t have to hide from,” Clark says.

She tilts her head to look up at him. “You also have that.”

Clark presses a kiss into her hair and folds her into a hug, resting his chin on top of her head. “You’re right, I do now. I was worried, you know? Jon didn’t say it, but I could see he was lonely. That’s the weight of the knowledge that we bare as Kryptonians, Lois, that loneliness. I’m glad he has Damian.” He closes his eyes and holds Lois tighter. He’s glad that Jon won’t have to spend his childhood feeling like he doesn’t belong or holding himself back from knowing and letting someone know him. That he won’t have to carry the guilt of feeling like he’s always lying to everyone and pretending and hiding.

ꟷ

The night is cool in Hamilton as the buzz of cicadas sounds like live voltage. The sky is scattered with millions of stars as everything is cloaked in the ink of darkness. He leads them to a hill where white starflowers grow and where an elm tree rests at the crest of the hill. He opens his backpack and takes out the blanket he’d brought. He spreads it down on the ground, smoothing out the wrinkles before sitting. Damian stands next to him. “What are we doing here?”

“You’ll see.” He grabs Damian’s hand and pulls him down. “You have to be quiet, okay?”

“Why?”

“You’ll see. It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t like surprises, Jon.”

“You’ll like this one.” Jon rolls over on to his stomach. Damian sighs, leaning back against the bark. He crosses his arms.

Minutes pass. “I’m surprised you can stay quiet this long.”

Jon kicks out without looking. Damian grabs his leg. Jon jerks his leg free with a huff. His eyes darting down into the valley below. Where are they?

It starts with a flicker, a blink and miss in the darkness, and then more and more lights blink on and off until there are hundreds of fireflies that dance in the night before them. They look like fallen stars cast off from the sky. Jon turns his head to Damian.

There is open wonderment not hidden on Damian’s face. His mouth has fallen open and his eyes are fixated on the weaving of the fireflies. The fireflies start to come closer, one coming to hover in front of them. Jon holds out his hand and waits until one lands on it. Damian gets down on his stomach as well, their shoulders pressed up against each other as they watch the firefly flare. Damian brings his hand up, letting the firefly crawl across his knuckles. Jon leans his cheek against his forearm, content and warm in watching Damian’s wonder.

Later that night, he rolls to the edge of his bed and peeks over it. Damian lies on the floor, his hands folded over his stomach with his eyes closed. “Damian?” he whispers.

“Hm?”

“Did you have fun?”

Damian doesn’t open his eyes. “Yes, I did.”

Jon smiles into his pillow. “Good. Goodnight, Damian.”

“Goodnight, Jon.”

ꟷ

After that, they start to have sleepovers at the farm as well. Jon shows Damian everything he can. The meadows that bloom full of flowers in the summer, fragrant and colourful, and where martins fly, swift and quick, iridescent in the sunlight. The pond by their farm where tadpoles hide under the surface and frogs croak, where cattails and reeds grow tall and thick. They lie on the rooftop above his room to watch the way that the stars cut through the dark of the night. It’s there that Damian takes Jon’s hand and guides it to connect the stars to form constellations.

The first time Damian sees a star fall, he’s silent all night with his eyes stuck on the sky waiting for another, and Jon promises to show Damian a meteor shower one day. It’s there on that roof one night that he finally asks Damian about soulmates. 

Damian has his head pillowed underneath his head, and his eyes closed. “Damian?” Damian grunts.

He pushes down the jittery nervousness that starts to uncurl in his stomach. “What do you think of soulmates?”

Damian’s eyebrows crease, and he opens his eyes. He turns his head. There is something guarded in his gaze. “Why are you asking me that?”

Jon looks away, focusing on the cuff of his sleeve. “I just want to know what you think of them.”

Damian gets up. “I think they are worthless. Nothing but burdens.” Jon curls his fingers into his sleeve. “They don’t matter to me, and they never will.”

“You don’t want to meet yours?” he asks.

The answer comes after minutes, and Jon can’t look at Damian. “I don’t have one, so it doesn’t matter.” Damian stands up and swings back in through the window. Jon pulls into himself, holding his knees against his chest. That’s not true. _He’s Damian’s and Damian is his, right?_

It takes him awhile to get off the roof. When he comes back into his room, Damian is already asleep. Jon sits down on the edge of his bed, resting his chin on his knees. Damian is frowning in his sleep, eyebrows furrowed on his forehead. _He has his answer, doesn’t he?_

ꟷ

He trails his fingers over the flared wingtip of the robin, calmness licks at his fingertips. He covers the soulmark with his hand. He meets his gaze in the mirror. His fingers dig into his skin. _It doesn’t have to mean anything._ _It doesn’t have to change anything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why, Damian must you hurt us so?


	9. It doesn’t Change Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Damian backed Jon into a corner and I gave him a way out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all I am sorry that this took so long to update. My laptop fried itself and I had to get a new one. Then this chapter needed a major rewrite because I hated everything about this. It was just frustrating and annoying. The only reason this even got done was because Kat was there to listen to my giant freak out. Thank you for being there! >_<

**Chapter Nine: It doesn’t Change Things**

It doesn’t change things. He’s just careful in how he touches Damian. He only touches covered skin. He doesn’t let his hand linger. He stops himself from hugging Damian. Things _will_ stay the same. He still sleeps over at the manor because Damian would be suspicious if he stopped. He just needs to be a little more careful that’s all. It’s fine. It’s going to be _fine_. It won’t bother him. He doesn’t notice the contemplative weight of Damian’s stare or the growing frown that increases as the days go by.

ꟷ

Thunder grumbles on the edges of the city as rain patters onto the streets, leaving them oil slicked in rainbow hues as they reflect the city lights. Robin’s got his hood pulled up and a pair of Batnoculars stuck to his face as he pans from empty street to empty street. Jon shivers, uncomfortable and wet. His soaked costume is heavy on his body. He pushes his wet hair away from his eyes.

He shivers again when a raindrop slides down his spine. “Ugh, why can’t we just use umbrellas?” he grumbles, miserable and drenched. Robin ignores him and moves the Batnoculars to another street. “I’m all wet and gross.” He wrinkles his nose. “And cold.”

Robin snorts. “Maybe next time you’ll reconsider making a costume out of ordinary fabric.”

Jon tugs at his sweater. “There’s nothing wrong with my costume.”

Robin’s eyes shift to him and move and down his costume. “It’s not waterproof or bulletproof.”

 _Okay. Fair._ “But it is made with love,” he points out, smug. Robin’s face twists in disgust. _Heh_. He tilts his head and now he that’s looking, Robin is dry. Dry and warm. He watches the rain slide off Robin’s shoulder

Robin eyes him. “What?”

“Your costume is waterproof.”

The eyes behind the domino mask narrow. “Yes, because I’m not an idiot.”

Jon edges closer. “I bet it’s warm.”

“So?” Robin prompts. He grabs the bottom of Robin’s cape and smiles. Robin scowls in understanding. “ _No_.”

He pouts, hunching in on himself. “I’m cold. Your cape is long enough to share.”

Robin tries to tug his cape out of Jon’s hands. “That is your problem not mine.”

Jon sticks out his bottom lip. “What if I get sick and can’t go on patrol?” Robin stops pulling the cape. “What if I get super pneumonia and I can’t go on patrol for months?”

“That is not a thing.”

“How do _you_ know? My biology is unique to me and we don’t know a lot about it.” Robin grumbles under his breath about idiot farm boys and stupid Kryptonians and lets go. Jon wraps the cape around himself, making a hood out of it. He sighs, pleased.

“You look stupid,” Robin says as he goes back to surveilling the streets.

He hums in agreement too content to argue. He might look stupid but he’ll be sheltered from the rain. He huddles in the cloak and looks down at the street. Maybe he should add a hood to his costume… _or make a raincoat version of it!_ He starts to design his super raincoat in his head. He startles when Robin clears his throat.

The Batnoculars remain fixed on his face. “Are you…” Robin tries and then closes his mouth. His mouth twitches. Jon waits. “Are you…okay?”

Jon’s eyebrows pinch together. “Huh?” _Is he okay?_

Robin’s shoulders tense. “You’ve been odd lately.”

He looks away watching the rain pelt the streets and the unfortunate people caught in it without umbrellas. They dash underneath awnings for protection. “I’m the same.”

“You’ve been—”

“ _I’m the same_ ,” he says, stubborn and firm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Robin grits his jaw. “ _Fine_.”

“ _Good_ ,” he shoots back, pulling the cape around himself tighter. _Everything is fine_.

ꟷ

It’s his dad who brings it up. He’s doing his science homework on the living room’s coffee table when his dad sets down a cup of hot chocolate next to his pencil case. Clark smiles down at him. “How about a break, kiddo?”

They end up sitting on the couch together. Jon brings his knees up to his chest and balances his cup on them. Clark takes a long sip of his hot chocolate before putting it down. There is an odd weight to the air around them that makes Jon want to fidget. He brings his shoulders up to his ears. “Am I in trouble?”

“No, buddy,” Clark assures. “You’ve been down these days, a little quieter. I was just worried and wanted to ask if something is going on or if something was bothering you.” Jon shrugs not looking up from his cup. “We don’t have to talk but I am here if you need someone, though. I’m always here for you.”

Jon bites his lip. “I–” He hesitates. Clark places a hand on his knee. “Someone said something to me.”

Clark shifts, so Jon ends up tilting into his side. “Oh? Did they say something bad?”

He shakes his head. “No. It wasn’t bad or mean. It’s just—” he stops, frustrated.

“It’s just?” Clark repeats.

Jon slumps deeper into his father’s side. Clark places his arm over Jon’s shoulder. “I think it’s been bothering me.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“I don’t know.” He says, hopeless and helpless.

Clark squeezes Jon’s shoulder. “Maybe you need to think about it instead of ignoring it.”

Jon nods. “Maybe.”

“How about for now we drink this hot chocolate?” Jon offers his dad a small grin and takes a sip of his drink. Clark presses a kiss to his forehead.

ꟷ

He tries. He does as his dad suggests. Tries to ask himself why it bothers him so much but every time he tries Damian’s words come back and—he _can’t_. _He can’t_. He pushes back the thoughts, forces them deeper into his mind, and refuses to look at them.

It doesn’t stop the bitterness from seeping when he’s around Damian. It doesn’t stop it from pricking and pricking. It doesn’t stop him from realizing that he’s not worth anything to Damian as a soulmate. That whatever Damian saw in his mark was enough for him to reject him. _He’s not good enough_. They are best friends and that’s all they will ever be.

_It doesn’t change things—it won’t._

ꟷ

As the days fall into weeks, Damian’s eyes start to linger on him. Jon ignores it, pretends not to notice the pinch to Damian’s mouth. They have chosen their lies and now they must bear them, even if their weight starts to sink them.

ꟷ

Eventually, it’s Bruce who offers something to help with the weight of his lie. It is during one of his monthly checkups down at the Batcave that Bruce’s gaze strays to the mark on his shoulder. It’s a dart—a quick flick of his eyes to his shoulder. “There is a way to hide soulmarks.”

He blinks. “There is?”

“Yes, the human members of the League use it.” Bruce takes off the last electrode and presses a button on the monitor to reel in the wires. He pulls out a strip of metal interconnected like fish scales from his pocket and hands it to Jon. It shimmers blue down the scales when it touches his hand. “This is a piece of woven nanotech called a concealer. Once applied it mimics the texture and colour of your skin to conceal the mark. It is durable enough to withstand battle so you won’t have to worry about damage. It can only be taken off by you once it learns your bio-signature.”

Jon runs his thumb over the smooth metal. “Will it block the emotions?”

Bruce pauses, considering Jon. “Is that a concern you have?”

He remembers the nights where he’d stay up to the weight of rage and hate choking him. How he’d hide under his blankets squeezing his eyes shut, wanting the power to make things better. “I don’t want them to be alone.”

“It won’t do that,” Bruce says after a moment. He walks back to the main computer. “If you want to use it you can and if you don’t want to that is your choice.” The clack of keyboard keys echoes throughout the cave.

Jon squeezes the metal in his hand. The scales imprinting into his skin. “Will it prevent bonding?” The sounds stop. Jon doesn’t look up.

Bruce’s voice is a little sad when he answers. “Yes, it will. Even if your soulmate was to touch it no reaction would occur.”

Jon smiles. “Batman knows everything, doesn’t he?”

“He does.”

He looks up and meets Bruce’s gaze. “You won’t tell him, right?”

Bruce’s face is cast in the shadows, but his eyes peek out from the darkness, solemn and understanding. “It isn’t my secret to tell, Jon.”

He looks back down at the metal. “I can take this off when I want, right?” _He can’t spend his life not seeing his mark._

“Yes, it isn’t something to wear permanently. Take it off for a few hours a day or at night to let your skin breathe. If you ever need a replacement, you can come get it from me.”

Jon takes a breath. _This is the only way he can be with Damian_. He places the concealer over the soulmark. The metal shifts to match his skin as it starts to eat away at the mark until all there is left is blank skin. He puts his hand over it. He can feel calmness, boredom, and the prick of annoyance because he’s taking too long. _This is the way it has to be. No one will know._

“Thank you, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce resumes his typing, glancing over the medical charts and readings.

When he comes out of the Batcave, Damian is waiting for him. He’s leaning on the wall next to the clock with his arms crossed over his chest. Alfred the cat balanced across his shoulders. “We need to talk.”

Anxiety unfurls in his stomach. Jon fiddles with the sleeve of his shirt, wrapping it around his hand. “Why?”

Damian scowls. “Don’t be stupid. You know why.” He steps away from the wall. “Come,” he commands. Jon swallows and follows.

҉

Damian leads him to his bedroom. He reaches out a hand to support Alfred’s back, watching Jon.

“You’re unsettled.”

Jon crosses an arm over his chest and shrugs, choosing to keep his attention on the black hardwood floors. “I’m not.”

“Then why aren’t you looking at me?”

He flicks his eyes up. Alfred’s black and white tail brushes up against Damian’s temple. Both the boy and the cat focus on him.

“What has been going on with you?”

“Nothing,” he mutters as his gaze strays to Damian’s ear.

“Jon‒”

Jon’s fingers clench at the fabric of his sleeve. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You don’t want to talk about a lot of things.” The hardness of Damian’s tone stills him. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice what you’ve been doing?” Damian steps closer, until the toes of their shoes touch. Alfred’s tail twitches behind Damian’s head. “Did you think you could hide it?” Fear tumbles in his stomach. _No._ Damian forces him to meet his gaze. “Why have you been avoiding touching me?”

Jon closes his eyes, letting out a shuddering breath. He opens his eyes when he feels fingers digging into his shoulder. Warmth starts to spread. “Did someone say something to you?” He jerks out of Damian’s grip. _He’s_ _too_ _close_. He rubs his shoulder, trying to get his skin to stop reacting. Damian grits his jaw, leaning back. “Fine.” Damian’s face closes off, becomes cold and foreign. He moves back. “Your father should be here. Go, Kent.” _No! Things aren’t supposed to change._

Jon grabs the cuff of Damian’s sleeve. “No! You always got mad when I hugged you, so I thought you didn’t like it.”

Damian’s gaze is heavy. “Is that why?” Jon closes his mouth and nods.

Jon wraps his arms around Damian, hiding his face against Damian’s shoulder. Alfred jumps off Damian’s shoulder disgruntled. “Sorry.” The tightness and stiffness of Damian’s body starts to melt. “Sorry.” Damian sighs, and his breath brushes against his hair. He leans against Jon. Jon holds him tighter. “I’m sorry.” _Things will be fine now. This will never be a problem again._

҉

A log breaks in the fire, throwing out embers. The manor’s library is quiet as Bruce sits in front of the fireplace with a blanket over his knees and a book in his lap. Titus slumbers by his feet. There is a steaming cup of peppermint tea by his elbow. “You gave Jon a concealer.” Tim rests his hip against the arm of the chair, watching the fire.

Bruce flips a page, unconcerned. “Yes, I did.”

“Why?”

Titus’s ear flicks. Bruce continues to read undeterred. “Damian backed Jon into a corner and I gave him a way out.”

Tim closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “He lied to Jon and told him he didn’t have a soulmate, didn’t he?”

Bruce sighs and closes his book, staring down at the leather cover. “As much as Damian has grown, there are still things tied to the League and al Ghul he hasn’t let go. He is one of us but the truth is that there are parts of him that belong to al Ghul.”

Tim sits down on the arm of the chair, frowning up at the ceiling. “I thought it was just a rumor. That in order to be an al Ghul you had to burn the heart right out of yourself.”

“The truth is much darker. What they meant is that you had to burn the heart of your soulmate, deny what was destined to you, and show where your loyalty lay.”

They sit in the weighted somber silence together. Tim taps his fingers against his thigh, thinking. “When he figures out Jon is his soulmate then what?”

Bruce places his book on the side table and leans back. He threads his fingers together and rests them on his lap. “It will be theirs to figure out.”

“If we leave things be—”

“And if we interfere, then the worse things will get.” At the clenching of Tim’s jaw, he continues, “this is theirs to figure out. They are children who need to grow and have the time to figure out what is it that they want and need from each other. All we can do is watch over them and offer guidance when they ask.” Softer he adds, “it will be fine, Tim.”

Tim snorts. He leans against Bruce’s shoulder. “Damian’s going to screw up because he has the emotional range of a rock.”

Bruce lets out a small exhale of a laugh. “A weathered rock, though.” He pats Tim’s knee. Quieter he says, “It is going to be okay, Tim.”

Tim watches the fire burn and flicker as it consumes the wood. _He wants to believe it but things don’t go well for Waynes._ “Are you sure?” he asks.

He squeezes Tim’s knee. “Yes, I am.”


	10. Run!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sorry about this chapter. 🙃

**Chapter Ten: Run!**

Jon kicks his feet out and in, balancing his weight on the ledge. He hums to himself. The sun is warm on his skin. He tilts his face up, smiling. There is a hint of salt in the breeze as it brushes past. 

“Must you do that?” Jon hums louder, ignoring Damian. “I’m going to throw you into the harbour.”

“You won’t.”

“TT.”

He opens his eyes and looks down at the water below them. There are corroded cargo ships docked along the harbour. Next to him, Damian has his Batnoculars up to his face aimed at the crumbling, rusted warehouses across them. Before he can ask Damian what they are doing here, he’s interrupted by a voice.

“What are you doing here, midget?” Damian tenses. Jon turns around, his heat vision glowing.

Behind them is a man whose face is covered by a red mask. There’s a red bat symbol hidden by a brown leather jacket. Jon’s heat vision fades. There’s _another_ member of the Bat Family? 

Damian bares his teeth. “Come say that to my face, failure.”

The man snorts. “I would, but I can’t bend down that far.” Jon’s mouth falls open.

Damian’s draws his sword. “Come here, I’ll fix that for you.”

Jon grapples for the sword. He tries to wrench it away. “No!”

“Who’s your little boyfriend?” He pauses, glancing down at Jon’s costume. He squints. “Is that _Superman’s_ _son_? Who the fuck let you near him?” His eyes narrow. “You brought him _here?_ ”

Damian takes a step closer to the man. Jon holds onto his waist, trying to dodge Damian’s elbows. “Release me at once, Superboy!”

“We talked about stabbing people, Robin!” he huffs irritated. _It’s like Damian doesn’t even listen to him._

They are both lifted by their collars and dragged off the roof. Damian kicks out, catching the man’s knee. The man swears. Jon tries to wiggle free, twisting and struggling. They are tossed onto the ground once they are away from the harbour. “If I catch your asses here again, I’m going to kick them all the way back to the manor.” He leans down, putting his face in front of Damian’s. “ _He_ shouldn’t be here, you know that.” He gets up, glancing down at Jon. “Go home, kid. This place isn’t for people like you.”

Jon watches him disappear into the alleyway. “Who was _that_?”

Damian scowls, brushing off the dust from his costume. “My father’s mistake, the Red Hood.”

“You have another brother?”

“No, he isn’t one of us,” Damian says, walking away. Jon runs after him. His eyes wander to the alleyway that the Red Hood disappeared into. _What did he mean by people like him?_ “‒come back later.”

He turns back to Damian. “Are you sure we should? He seemed mad.”

“There is something going down at the harbour that has escaped the notice of my father. We need to be the ones to figure it out.”

Jon frowns. “This isn’t a competition, Robin.”

Damian sneers. “If you don’t want to help, then don’t. I don’t need any of your stupid lectures.”

He sighs. “I’m not going to let you do this alone.” When Damian doesn’t respond, Jon knocks his shoulder against Damian’s. “We’re partners. We do things together, okay?” Damian’s eyes shift to him. He nods. Jon smiles.

ꟷ

They sneak into the warehouse district that surrounds the harbour. There is something haunting about the hundreds of abandoned buildings covered in graffiti that cage them. Their red brick darkened by age and weather into a dull, red brown. Moss crawls up along the base of the warehouses. Most of the windows are broken or boarded up. There are dead tufts of grass that force their ways through the cracks in the pavement. Glass breaks under their feet. Jon stops in front of a mural of the Joker’s grinning face, lips stretched wide to display yellow lipstick-stained teeth. _They shouldn’t be here._ His looks away and follows Damian deeper into the labyrinth of decay.

Damian leads them to a corroded warehouse where the metal has rusted to an oxidized red that bleeds down the panels of the building. The windows are cracked and shattered. There’s a fear reaching deep into his gut. _They shouldn’t be here_. _Something isn’t right_. Damian is already walking into the warehouse. Jon follows.

ꟷ

They walk among shadows. The inside of the warehouse is gutted. Lighting fixtures snake down in exposed wires and sharp metal. The walls are covered in unreadable graffiti and worn brick. There are pieces of cement and debris scattered along the floor. The sheet of dust on the ground has been disturbed by hundreds of footprints. They follow the trail to a pile of wooden crates.

Damian jerks his chin at them.

“My X-Ray vision is still iffy,” he mutters, narrowing his eyes. “…There’s a door here but I can’t see through it though.”

Damian applauds. “Wonderful. Your powers are truly impressive.”

Jon rolls his eyes, helping Damian push off the crates. “I can’t help it if I can’t see through lead. Why would they even use lead?”

“Villains hide things, Superboy. It isn’t as complicated as you think.” Underneath the crates is a trapdoor. “Is your super strength working today?”

Jon stretches his arms. “Let’s find out.” He wiggles his fingers between the gap and pries the door in two. He holds up the two pieces, triumphant. “Guess it is.”

“At least your brute strength comes in handy,” Damian says as he descends into the basement. “Since we obviously can’t count on your intelligence.”

No, Jon, we can’t step on Damian’s cape no matter how much he deserves it or how funny it would be to see him fall down the stairs. You are a hero. You need to be professional. After the mission is over, you can dump him into the harbour and run for your life.

ꟷ

The staircase goes down and down into the darkness. He grabs the end of Damian’s cape as they walk. Minutes pass until they reach the bottom. They stand in front of a large, metallic door. Jon closes his eyes, focusing on his hearing. “There’s no one inside.”

Damian goes to the keypad by the door and takes out a drill from his belt. He unscrews the nails, takes off the panel, and picks through the wires until he finds the ones he’s looking for. He tears them out. The keypad flashes green. The door slides open. Inside is a two-storey lab with reinforced metal walls. There are computer terminals in standby mode along the right side. On the left, there are display cases filled with guns, knives, daggers, and bombs. Damian walks over to the main computer further into the room. He takes out a USB from his gauntlet and plugs it into the terminal. The only noise is the rapid click of keys.

His vision wavers, doubling for a second. Jon shakes his head. _What was that?_ Damian is busy hacking into the lab’s mainframe. Jon rubs the side of his head, wandering off to look at the weapons. “They have a rather high degree of protection. All of their files are encrypted by multiple passwords.” He tries to focus on the weapons but his vision keeps doubling. “Whatever they are hiding must be important.” He leans his hand against the wall to steady himself and accidentally presses a panel that reveals a hidden case.

Damian makes a noise of triumph. “Ah, there we go.”

“Robin.”

Damian skims the files. “They seem to have collected information on all the Supers—anyone that isn’t human. Old battle footage, blood and DNA samples. What are they doing with this?”

“Robin.”

“All these files go into detail about fighting style, techniques and seem to be trying to find their weaknesses.” Robin skims through the files. “They seem to be making weapons to—”

“ _Robin_.” Damian finally turns to him. Jon swallows. In front of him are various coloured glowing Kryptonite rocks. “They have Kryptonite.”

“It took us quite awhile to find it.”

They jerk their heads to the entrance of the lab where a woman stands. Her blonde hair woven into a braid over her shoulder. She’s wearing reinforced body armour with guns holstered to her hip and a blade sheathed behind her back. Her cold, brown eyes land on Jon. She smiles, drawing out a green glowing sword from her back. “We’re hoping to test this on Superman but you’ll do fine.”

There’s a blinding flash and a grip on his wrist that pulls him along. “Run!”

ꟷ

His vision comes back in snapshots. Grey, blood-soaked pavement. His outstretched dust-coated hand. Everything blurs and doubles. _Damian_. He turns his head; his cheek scraping against the rough asphalt. Everything hurts. It takes a minute for the blackness to fade before he can see again. Damian stumbles, falls to his knees. A blade glints, rising. _No_.

Damian’s got rubble in his hair. Blood dries along his temple. There are bluish-purple marks blooming across his jaw. He’s gaze is fixed to Jon’s chest, eyes wide behind his domino mask. There is something weird about Damian’s face. He’s never seen Damian look like that… _like he’s scared_. Damian is never scared. Jon looks down. _Oh_. His knees collapse. He falls forward onto Damian. He sees flashes of black and blue, the tail of a red cape, the sound of a gunshot and electricity buzzing before he lets go.

ꟷ

Damian stares down at the bloody fabric of Jon’s costume. The symbol on his chest is torn and soaked with blood. Jon is still. Behind him, his father and Superman crowd around the computer where Jon’s vitals and medical chart are. Tim has the blade underneath a microscope. There’s an arm around his shoulders that tries to pull him away. He shakes it off. Dick tugs Damian back, crushing him to his chest and trapping Damian’s arms by his side so he can’t break free. He holds Damian tighter and waits for him to stop struggling. He sighs and presses his cheek into Damian’s hair. He focuses on the fluctuating heart monitor. Damian goes slack against him. “Go take a shower, Damian. You’re going to upset Jon when he wakes up. Alright?” He feels Damian nod against his chest. Dick holds him for a few seconds longer. “He’s going to wake up, Damian. He’s going to wake up.”

ꟷ

He stands under the shower stream, leaning his head against the cold, slick tiles, watching the pink water go down the drain. The water is too hot against his skin. He looks down at his blood-stained hands and snarls, punching the tiles over and over until they crack and cut his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternately, this chapter was called the stabby stab chapter. 🔪(❁´◡`❁)
> 
> *Provides ice for the whiplash*


	11. What am I Supposed to do?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Damian isn’t okay, is he?”
> 
> It takes a few seconds for the answer to come. “No, he isn’t.” Jon bites his bottom lip. “The way that Damian has chosen to deal with it is his own responsibility. You have no fault in it.”
> 
> Jon closes his eyes until purple and blue lights flash against the back of his eyelids. He’s wrong. It is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are two more chapters left before the time skip comes and these babies grow up!

**Chapter Eleven: What am I Supposed to do?**

When he wakes, it’s inside of a castle of ice where the sun bathes the ice in hues of seafoam green. It takes him awhile to understand that he’s in the Fortress. There’s a warmth in his hand. He squeezes down on it. “Jon?”

He turns his head. _Dad?_ Why does his dad look like that? So tired. There are purple bags under his eyes. His hair is disordered. There’s a weary slump to his shoulders that makes him smaller. Defeated. Next to him is his mom. She’s asleep on the medical table next to his knee, her head cushioned on her arms. She has bags underneath her eyes that are worse than his father’s. Her eyebrows crinkle together. Her mouth has a weary, unhappy tilt to it.

He opens his mouth to ask what happened but nothing comes out. His throat is too dry. “Lois, he’s awake.” His mom snaps awake, her chair tumbles to the ground as she gets up to cup his face. She’s been crying. His dad helps him up, bracing him against his chest, and presses a cup of water to his lips. He’s so thirsty that he tries to drink it quickly but it makes him cough and there’s a painful pull in his chest. He spills the water down his shirt. His dad holds him through the coughs as his mom rubs his chest. _Why does it hurt so much?_ His dad waits and offers him the rest of the water, taking it away when it’s empty. “Do you want some more water?”

He shakes his head. “Why are we here?” His voice is hoarse, cracking over the words.

His dad doesn’t answer instead he buries his face into Jon’s hair and doesn’t let go. He meets his mom’s gaze, questioning.

She bites her lip and lets out a breath that shakes her chest. “You got hurt.”

 _He got hurt?_ Then it comes. The warehouse. The ambush. The blade. _Damian._ He tries to get up, ignoring the way his chest aches. “Is Damian okay?”

His mom steadies his shoulders, forcing him back. “He’s fine, Jon. He’s fine. He just has a few bruises and sprains that will heal with time.” He falls back against his father’s chest. _Damian’s okay._ His hand drifts to his chest to try and ease the ache; his father’s hand stops him. “The blade they used was made from kryptonite. It’s going to take awhile to heal, so you can’t move around much, alright?”

“Why would they have kryptonite?”

Clark opens his mouth and closes it, unsure. Finally, he says, “You just need to focus on resting. We will talk about it later.”

Jon nods. He doesn’t want to move around; he just wants to go to sleep. His dad presses a kiss into his hair, and his mother against his forehead as he falls asleep.

ꟷ

Most of his days at the fortress are spent asleep in the medical pod. He doesn’t have the energy to get up so his dad and mom alternate helping him sit and eat. It’s when he finally has a sponge bath that he gets to see his wound. It’s an ugly thing of puffed sown together skin and black sutures. He tries to keep the nausea away. His dad dabs around the wound. “We’ll take out the sutures soon.” His dad’s hand stops, dripping water onto the medical table. “It will scar, though.” Jon watches the drop of water by his knee grow larger as more water drips down into it.

He lies awake one night while his mom and dad sleep on the chairs pulled close to his bed. The fortress is silent. There is no life there. The walls of ice stand among the solitude like sentries. He wonders what Damian is doing. It takes him awhile to get his hand to move up to his shoulder. He presses his palm over the mark. There’s anger—not the same as before. This anger is destructive, lashing out. Underneath it is something else. He has to close his eyes to focus. Ice crawls up his fingers. _Fear_. Burnt bitterness clogs his throat. _Sadness and Regret_. Jon drops his hand and takes a shuddering breath.

҉

“I thought they trained you out of your bloodthirsty phase.”

Damian lowers his fist. At the mouth of the alleyway is the Red Hood. Damian lets go the collar of some third-rate villain. He wipes his mouth, smearing blood over his chin. Around him are the unconscious bodies of some useless henchmen. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” He steps over a body and follows.

They end up sitting on the roof of an office building. The wind is harsh, pulling at their clothes, and trying to tear at their skin. “If you want to do that, do it without the costume.”

“No lecture on how I am better than this?”

“I’m not Nightwing. I don’t give a fuck if you want to ruin your life. But I want you to leave everyone out of it. Stop trying to drag them down with you.”

Damian offers him a cruel, mocking smile. “You care so much about them, do you? Then what have you been doing running around Gotham taking everything Father taught you and throwing it back in his face? What have you been doing if _not_ spitting in their faces?”

Jason heaves Damian up by his collar. “Listen, you little brat, stop trying to pick fights because you can’t handle your guilt. I warned you to not bring him there but it’s always your ego that matters the most, isn’t it?”

He sneers, kicking Jason in the stomach. Jason grunts, letting go. Damian backs up, getting out his Batarangs. “Shut up, you don’t know anything!”

“I know I wasn’t the one who almost got their boyfriend killed,” Jason says dodging the weapons. “I know I wasn’t the one who couldn’t protect someone that mattered to me.”

Damian lets out a snarl. He tackles Jason and punches him in the mouth. “Shut up!” Jason jabs Damian in his kidney and pushes him off. He twists Damian’s arms behind his back to hold him down. Damian struggles, trying to get Jason’s weight off his back. Jason just holds him down tighter, pushing all his weight down to pin him.

It goes on for minutes until Damian rests his forehead against the concrete and gives up. “You can’t keep doing this.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

Jason lets go, getting up. “No one is going to tell you what to do. Decide for yourself.”

Damian sits up, watching Jason as blood drips down his jaw. “And what am I looking for here?”

“Atonement. Punishment. Because what else are you supposed to do with that remorse and guilt eating at you, right?” Damian clenches his jaw. Jason squats down in front of him. “Go be where you’re supposed to be. Where you’re needed. Stop being such a bitch about it.” Jason stands up and starts to make his way off the roof. He rubs his jaw, wincing at the way it throbs. _Violent little shit_.

“Is that what you’re looking for?”

Jason stops.

“Forgiveness? Retribution?” Jason stays silent. “If you are, father forgave you a long time ago.” Jason stiffens, his spine going rigid and straight. “He misses you. They all do.” Jason forces himself to keep walking even though his footsteps are weighted and heavy. “He goes by your room some nights looking for you.” His steps flatter a little before he keeps going. Damian falls back onto the ground and throws an arm over his eyes.

҉

His dad drops him off at the manor, a month after the injury, for a checkup. His dad lingers by the medical table asking if it’s alright to go on a mission as Bruce brings up different files on the main computer.

Jon starts to unzip his hoodie. His dad helps him take off his jacket. He shivers as the cold, damp air in the cave hits his skin. “I’ll be okay, dad. You aren’t even going far. It’s just a few towns over and those people need your help.”

Clark frowns. “They can manage without me if needed.”

“They can, but relief and clean up efforts will go faster with you there.” When Clark opens his mouth to reply, Jon adds, “Go. You haven’t gone on a mission in awhile. I’ll be okay.”

Clark sighs and presses a kiss to his forehead. He leans back, resting his hands on Jon’s shoulders. “If you need me, I will be here, okay?”

“I know, dad.” Clark squeezes his shoulders once before disappearing in a streak of blue and red.

Bruce comes over and types something onto the touchpad attached to the bed. Jon glances around, straining his neck to see over Bruce’s shoulder. “Damian isn’t here.”

“Oh, did he know I was coming?”

Bruce’s hand hovers over the pad for a second before it resuming typing. “He hasn’t been around much.”

Jon curls his hands against the edge of the medical bed. “Is it because of what happened?”

“Lie down,” Bruce orders. Jon lies back staring at the stalagmites that hang above them as the medical bed’s glass dome closes down over him.

“Damian isn’t okay, is he?”

It takes a few seconds for the answer to come. “No, he isn’t.” Jon bites his bottom lip. “The way that Damian has chosen to deal with it is his own responsibility. You have no fault in it.”

Jon closes his eyes until purple and blue lights flash against the back of his eyelids. _He’s wrong. It is_.

ꟷ

Jon ends up falling asleep in one of the drawing rooms, waiting for his dad’s return. He yawns, rubbing his nose against the couch cushion before opening his eyes. Damian glares down at him. His eyes are like silted pieces of hard cut jade. He smiles, reaching out, and pulling Damian down. “You’re back.”

Damian grits his jaw. “You’ve been gone for a month.”

“I know. My dad said the Fortress would be a better place to heal. I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” Damian tries to pull away. Jon stops him, gripping down harder on his wrist. “I’m okay. It doesn’t even hurt anymore. Look.” Jon unzips his jacket to show Damian his healed chest.

Damian fingers hover over the discoloured flesh. “It scarred.” This time when Damian draws back, he lets him slip his wrist from his grip. He’s too tired to keep him close.

His hand falls back down on the sofa. Damian frowns. “You’re still weak.”

“No, I’m not. Your grumpy face looks tired.” The words get mumbled as he yawns into cushion.

There’s a snort.

He’s lulling back into sleep _._ “‒missed your stupid grumpy face, though.”

There’s a sigh as the couch shifts. He isn’t sure but he feels a hand brushing through his hair before he falls asleep.

Bruce and Clark find Damian perched on the armrest above Jon, keeping watch. Clark fights a smile. “Damian,” he greets. “It’s nice to see you.”

Damian narrows his eyes. “Kent.”

Clark picks up Jon, tucking his head underneath his jaw. Damian jumps off his perch, standing in front of Clark. His hands form fists by his side. “Where are you taking him?”

“The Fortress.”

Damian’s jaw twitches. “He isn’t getting better there if he still feels this weak.”

Clark adjusts the blanket so it falls over Jon like a hooded cloak. He doesn’t notice the half-step Damian takes toward him. “The Fortress has medical pods specifically built for Kryptonians. He’s getting better, Damian. It is just taking time. When he comes back to the farm, you can come down and see him, okay?”

There’s a stubborn angle to Damian’s jaw as he raises it. Bruce holds Damian’s shoulders. When Damian tries to break out of his grip, Bruce squeezes down on them. “Perhaps if Damian had a way to check up on Jon, he’d feel at ease?”

“Of course, um…I have a cellphone you can call?” Clark shifts Jon in his grip, reaching into his back pocket.

“That won’t work up at the Fortress,” Bruce reminds.

Clark drops his hand. “Oh, right.”

“However, this will.” Bruce hands Clark a sleek touchscreen cellphone with the Wayne Enterprises logo engraved on the back and a charging wire. “It uses the Wayne Enterprises satellites so it will have coverage everywhere.” When he sees Clark hesitate, he adds, “It wasn’t bought. It was built from broken tech.” When that doesn’t sway Clark, he continues, “I would take it unless you want Damian blowing up your fortress.”

Clark looks down at Damian, surprised. Damian offers him a cutting smile. “Yes, Kent. Your fortress has quite a few vulnerabilities to exploit.” Clark’s eyebrows raise in alarm.

His mouth opens and closes before he settles on what to say. “Thank you, Bruce. I’ll give this to Jon when he wakes up,” Clark promises before he leaves.

ꟷ

They stand on the porch long after Clark as left. The trees around them are autumn hued orange, yellow, and red. The sky is bleak and grey. “Thank you, Father.”

Bruce glances down at Damian. “You should thank Tim for making it.”

“I will do so.”

Bruce places a hand on the back of Damian’s head. “How are you?”

“I am...doing better.” The leaves shiver from the breeze as sparrows play hide and seek among their branches. “I talked with Todd.” Bruce’s hand twitches. “I think you should as well, Father.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jason is actually my favourite batboy. His tragic badboy persona gets me every time *dreamy sigh*.


	12. It wasn’t your Fault

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They haven’t talked about it. They don’t talk about it.
> 
> “Jon.”
> 
> He curls to the side, wiping the tears against his pillow. “I dreamt about it.” Damian’s fingers curl into the blankets below them. He closes his eyes. “You got hurt,” he whispers. He’s too late in his dream, and the blade goes through Damian’s heart.
> 
> “I wasn’t the one that got hurt.”
> 
> They have to talk about it or there will always be weighted silences that never fill. He doesn’t want to though. Jon hides his face against his pillow. “We can’t avoid this, Jon.”
> 
> “I don’t want to talk about it.” He doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter left before the time skip! ╰(*°▽°*)╯
> 
> A big thank you to Kat for being my rubber duck and letting me just talk stupid to you and not slapping me for it.

**Chapter Twelve: It wasn’t your Fault**

Jon leans against his pillow, staring down at the phone in his hands confused. “I thought I wasn’t allowed to get a phone?”

Clark scratches his neck. “Bruce‒Damian made me reconsider. You should call Damian. Right now.”

“Okay?”

“Good…I’m going to go pick up your mom and tell her…we got you a phone.” Clark rubs his mouth, wincing. “Right, I have to tell her that.” _Oh, she is not going to like this._

Clark walks out of Jon’s room, shaking his head. _Weird_. Jon crosses his legs and powers on the phone. The Wayne Enterprises logo flashes.

 _Verification required. Please, place your finger on the reader to complete verification_.

 _Reader?_ Jon flips the phone in his hand, running his finger against the edge, looking for anything that might be a reader. He places his index finger on the engraved W on the back of his phone and almost drops it when it vibrates.

 _Verification complete. Welcome, Jonathon Samuel Kent_. Jon taps on the call icon, and there are already numbers programed into his phone. He finds Damian’s name and presses call. It rings once before getting picked up.

“Why do I have a phone?”

“Good evening, Jonathon. Has living in an ice cave gotten rid of those farmhouse manners of yours?”

Jon crinkles his nose. “Don’t call me that. It’s weirder than when you used to call me Kent. So, why do I suddenly have a phone?”

“Tim thought you would need it. I agree. It was a gross oversight on your father’s part to not have given you one before this.”

“I don’t really need one. My dad has super hearing, and he always knows what’s going on. If I get in trouble or I need him, he’ll be there.”

“That isn’t an absolute. What if your father is off world and you need help? You’d have no way of contacting anyone. This way you may call me when you need my help.”

Jon falls back on his bed. His image is reflected on the ceiling of ice above him. He misses his room back at the farm. It’s always so cold here no matter how many layers he wears or how many blankets he has. The cold shouldn’t bother him this much. “Why wouldn’t I call Dick or your dad if I’m in trouble? I also have Tim’s number.”

“You would call me because I am the superior option.”

Jon smirks, turning to the side. He pulls the blanket over himself. “What if I think Dick is the better option?”

“Grayson is _not_ the better option. He is a lazy fool who wouldn’t pick up. I, on the other hand, would always pick up.” He snickers at the outrage in Damian’s voice.

“What if I call you super late at night?”

“I would pick up.”

“What if I call you when your sleeping?”

“I would pick up.”

“What if I called and there wasn’t an emergency?”

“I would still pick up.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

Jon hides his smile against his pillow. “Okay, then you’ll be the first person I call.”

“Good.”

ꟷ

He starts to call Damian at night once his mom and dad are asleep, hiding under his blankets and whispering.

Jon slams his head against his half-completed homework. His pencil pokes his cheek. “My dad bought me all the homework I missed.”

“At least you won’t get stupider.”

He lets out a squawk. “ _Excuse me?_ You don’t even go to school.”

“I unlike you took my studies seriously and hold Masters in numerous subjects.”

Jon scoffs in disbelief, resting the tip of his chin on his math textbook. “There’s no way you do. You aren’t even _that_ smart. You’re only thirteen when did you have time to do that?” _Please, he wasn’t dumb enough to believe that._

“I am smarter than you.”

“No, you aren’t.”

“According to your last mid-terms I am. A C in math? How did you get a B in English when both your parents are journalists?”

 _No way._ His cheeks start to turn pink. “That’s not true.”

“Oh, it is. I’m looking at your report card right now. At least now we know super intelligence is one power you don’t have. Better finish up that homework, we can’t have you fall behind…well, further behind than usual.”

Jon cuts the call and throws his phone away.

ꟷ

Jon taps his pencil against the cover of his science textbook before writing renewable on his energy worksheet. His phone is next to him on speakerphone. “I miss noodles. When I come back, I’m going to eat all the cup noodles in the world.” _The salty, warm broth, the chewy noodles_...his mouth waters.

“Have you ever read the ingredients on those cups? You’d be better off drinking salt water straight. How do you keep your beanpole body so skinny when you eat the way you do is a mystery. When you come back, we will go to an authentic ramen restaurant, so you can understand how insulting those cup noodles are.”

“Right after I eat all the cup ramen in the world, sure.”

Damian makes a noise of disgust.

ꟷ

Jon sprawls across his bed, crumpling his math homework. “You should come see the Fortress one day.”

“I will not be used as an excuse for you to avoid homework.”

“Not right now,” Jon huffs. “When I’m better, you can come see the alien zoo.”

There’s a pause. “…Alien zoo?”

 _Heh_ , _knew that would get you_. “Yup, it’s _huge_ and has hundreds of animals from other worlds.”

“…Perhaps, I can find sometime in the future to come and visit.”

 _Thought so._ “Don’t forget to bring a snowsuit.”

ꟷ

After a few more weeks, he finally goes back home. He flops down on his bed. “I missed you bed.” He turns and brings Ted-El to his chest. “I missed you, Ted-El.” Krypto nudges his arms, pushing them up until he’s in Jon’s grip. His tail slaps against Jon’s hip. “I missed you too, Krypto.” Krypto lets out a soft woof and presses his snout against Jon’s chest.

“I’m fine, Krypto. It’s all better.” He pets Krypto to sleep. He listens to the life around him. The clucking of chickens, the munching of hay, the far-off bird songs, and the skitter of insects. He lets himself drift in a doze. It’s hours later that he picks his head up from Krypto’s neck. It’s faint, but he hears Damian’s heartbeat. It grows louder and louder until it becomes clear as it resonates in his ears.

He wants to get up and go see Damian, but he doesn’t want to wake Krypto. He uses his super hearing to follow Damian. The car doors opening, the sound of four footsteps, the squeak of their front door that never goes away. The gruffness of Bruce’s voice, Dick’s burst of bright laughter, the weak sound of rap from Tim’s earbuds, and his mom and dad welcoming them in. They move to the kitchen, but Damian stays by the front door with his dad.

“Kent.”

“Good to see you, Damian. Jon’s up in his room. I’m sure he’d be happy to see you.”

Damian doesn’t move. “I wish to speak to you. In private.”

“Alright.” The floor boards creak as both of them move closer to the stairs away from everyone. They stop.

“What is it that you wanted to say?”

He hears Damian take a bracing breath before speaking. “It was my fault that Jon was hurt.”

Jon hugs Krypto tighter, hiding his face against his fur.

“Damian―”

“It _was_ my fault, and I am sorry that I could not protect him. But I promise you that I will never let him get hurt again. I swear to you that I will never let any harm ever come to him again.”

_It wasn’t._

“I have always trusted you with Jon, and I always will, Damian. You go on upstairs; Jon has been looking forward to seeing you.”

Jon pretends to be napping when Damian knocks on his door. “Come in.”

Damian opens the door. His eyebrows furrow down on his forehead when he sees Jon. “Do you still feel weak?”

“No,” Jon says, untangling himself from Krypto who lets out a disgruntled huff when he gets jostled. “Krypto was taking a nap, and I didn’t wanna wake him.” He finally gets free from the blanket and stands in front of Damian. “I’m better now. All healed.”

It’s a small thing, but Damian’s shoulders drop a little. “Good.”

Jon smiles and wraps his arms around Damian’s shoulders, leaning his forehead against Damian’s collarbone. “I missed you.” He stays in that warmth for a bit. It’s when he starts to pull back that he feels the hesitant movement of Damian’s arms coming to rest at his back. Jon holds him tighter.

ꟷ

They end up going downstairs after a little while. His parents and the Waynes are crowded around the kitchen table drinking coffee. Dick spots him and grins. “Jon!” He gets up and comes over, pulling Jon into a side hug. “It’s good to see you up and moving.” He leads him over to the kitchen and guides Jon into a seat between Tim and Bruce.

Bruce nods. His eyes crinkling at the corners. “I am glad that you are feeling better, Jon.” He pushes a gift basket filled with chocolates, sweets, and pastries. “This is for you.”

“Oh, thank you. You didn’t have to bring me anything. I’m just glad you all came to visit me.”

Tim pulls his own gift from his pocket dropping it next to the gift basket. It is a small metal case. “No, Bruce was adamant on bringing the basket.”

“I think it’s because Bruce just really likes gift baskets,” Dick adds while reaching for a blueberry and orange muffin.

Bruce pours himself another cup of coffee. Clark pushes the plate of muffins closer to him. “When someone has recovered from an illness or injury, it is common courtesy to bring them a gift to congratulate their health, Tim.” He takes a maple pecan muffin from the pile.

“Of course it is, but you don’t bring them everywhere, Bruce. We once had to talk you out of taking one down to our school during parent teacher meetings.” Tim points down at the metal case with his chin. “Those are wireless headphones to go with your phone. I know you have super hearing, but these will help you connect to our private hero channels. They’re also pretty good headphones in general. Just charge them in the daylight for a few hours, and you’ll get 50 hours of usage.”

“Oh wow, I can’t take something this expensive.” Jon tries to give them back to Tim.

Tim shakes his head, pushing them back into Jon’s hands. “They aren’t expensive. I built them out of broken tech. Nightwing makes sure we have a lot of that on hand.”

“Hey!” Dick buts in, “keeping Gotham safe is dangerous work, so what if a few things get broken sometimes? In the end, it’s all for keeping Gotham and all its people safe.”

Tim turns his head to Dick. “You broke five communication devices in two weeks and two pairs of escrima sticks not to mention the Batmobile. You don’t see Damian breaking anything.”

“It’s because I am not a careless fool like Grayson.”

Bruce raises a brow. “What about the Batmobile?” Dick coughs.

Damian tries to reach for the coffee pot, but Lois takes it away. She spares Damian a scolding look before placing mugs of hot chocolate in front of the younger boys. Damian grumbles under his breath but accepts the mug. “It doesn’t have an engine or a steering wheel.”

“It might be missing a tire,” Tim says. “I’m not sure. I was distracted by the giant scratch on the side of it.”

Dick avoids Bruce’s gaze, looking up at the ceiling instead. “We will talk about this at home, Dick. For now, give Jon your gift and Alfred’s we need to head back soon. I believe Damian will stay the night if that is okay, Clark?”

“It’s absolutely fine, Bruce. You guys should stay for dinner though.”

Bruce pushes his chair back, getting up. “Perhaps on a night where Gotham doesn’t need us we will. Thank you for the coffee, Lois. You always make a wonderful cup.” He presses a kiss to Lois’s cheek before picking up his suit jacket from behind the chair.

“Gotham can last a day without you,” Clark says while walking Tim and Bruce to the door.

Tim shrugs on his jacket. “Yeah, but then Jason would be in charge and we like Gotham without the flames.”

“He loves fire as much as he does bullets,” Bruce says, holding the door open for Tim.

Dick hands Jon a wrapped giftbox and leans down to whisper. “Open this away from Damian. Also, Alfred sent you an apple pie. He’s sorry he couldn’t come down to see you, but he says he’ll be waiting for you to visit the manor.”

“Thank Mr. Pennyworth for me and thank you, Dick, for the gift and coming to visit me.”

Dick ruffles his hair. “Of course I’d come see my favourite little hero.”

Jon let’s out a giggle. He waves them all goodbye from the porch.

ꟷ

They spend the day in the living room watching movies on Netflix while eating through the giftbox. When Damian goes to get ready for bed, he goes up to his room to change into his pyjamas. He notices Dick’s gift on his desk. He opens it up. Inside the box is a black furred teddy bear with the Nightwing insignia stitched to its chest. He takes it out of the box and holds it up. “I’ll shall call you _Nightbear_ , and you will sleep with me from now on.” As he tucks the bear into the joint of his elbow, he notices a note wedged between the tissue paper and the side of the box.

_Lift the tissue paper for a surprise!_

_P.S. Don’t let Damian see it._

He lifts up tissue paper and laughs when he sees what lies underneath. He pulls out a Robin teddy. It wears Damian’s Robin costume. It even has a cape! Whoever made it included to stitch on a pair of angry eyebrows. He squeezes the bear tight. “We can’t let Damian see you, okay?” Jon looks around his room for a hiding spot. He decides to hide the bear in the third drawer of his study desk underneath his old tests. “It’ll only be until Damian goes home, okay? I promise I’ll take you out after that and find you a better place.”

When Damian gets out of the shower, he’s finished making a nest of blankets on the living room floor. Damian’s nose wrinkles when he sees the Nightwing teddy against his side. “Grayson got you an ugly bear?”

Jon twists around so that Nightbear is cradled against his chest. “He isn’t ugly, he’s cute, and I like him. He’s soft, and he’s going to sleep with me from now on.”

“TT.” Damian scowls. It morphs into confusion when he notices the blankets on the ground. “What are these for?”

“We’re going to sleep on these!”

“Why?”

“It’s a sleepover thing, Damian! Usually there is a bunch of kids though, but we can do it with two. Come on, it’ll be fun!” Damian allows himself to be pulled down. Once they are both settled, Jon drapes a blanket over them and pulls Nightbear against his chest.

ꟷ

He hasn’t told anyone that sometimes he wakes in the middle of the night with salt on his tongue and the beat of his heart in his ears.

“Jon?”

Jon tries to breathe, but it comes out in panicked bursts. There’s a rustle. Damian hovers over him. “Jon, you need to calm down. Inhale through your nose and exhale through your mouth.” It takes time, but his breathing slows down. His heart still taps against his ribcage. Damian is now sitting up, watching him. “What happened?”

They haven’t talked about it. They _don’t_ talk about it.

“Jon.”

He curls to the side, wiping the tears against his pillow. “I dreamt about it.” Damian’s fingers curl into the blankets below them. He closes his eyes. “You got hurt,” he whispers. He’s too late in his dream, and the blade goes through Damian’s heart.

“I wasn’t the one that got hurt.”

They have to talk about it or there will always be weighted silences that never fill. He doesn’t want to though. Jon hides his face against his pillow. “We can’t avoid this, Jon.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” _He doesn’t._

The blankets shift. A weight settles behind him. “We’re going to have to.” He doesn’t want to. Jon clenches his eyes shut until fireworks of purple and blue start to flash. “Do you dream about it often?”

He shakes his head. “Just sometimes. D‑do you have nightmares too?”

There’s a silence before Damian answers. “Yes. I do.”

Jon turns to look over his shoulder. There is a weariness to Damian that he hasn’t noticed until now. In the frown on his lips, in the pinch between his eyebrows, and the regret in his eyes. He rolls to his side to face Damian. “About what?”

Damian focuses on the wall behind Jon. “My life before Gotham.” His eyes shift back to Jon. “You never asked me about it.”

“You never wanted to talk about it.” Jon shifts his head closer. _He’s wanted to say this to Damian for months, but there was never a moment where he could. Not until now._ “Whatever happened won’t change who you are now, Damian. Not to me.” Damian’s eyes stay fixed on his face. Jon takes in a breath. _Come on, Jon._ “I know you’re angry, but I’m not sorry.” Damian tenses and fury storms his face. A snarl forms on his mouth. When he feels Damian start to get up, he grabs his arm, and stops him. “ _Listen_ , being a hero means that sometimes you get hurt saving others.”

“You aren’t a hero. You’re nothing but a stupid, naïve child who let himself get hurt,” Damian spits out, angry and furious.

Jon sniffs, sticking up chin his in defiance. “So are you. You forget, but you are too, and I _chose_ to let myself get hurt.”

Damian grabs Jon’s wrist, trying to get him to let go. Jon tightens his grip. “ _Why?_ Why did you do it?”

“Because heroes protect the ones they care about.” Damian stiffens. _That blade would have gone through Damian’s heart_. “I know your angry, but I’m not sorry. It was my choice to make. It wasn’t your fault, Damian. It wasn’t.”

Damian gives up. His shoulders drop, and the tension coiled around him melts. “You’re nothing but a fool.”

Jon shrugs. “Maybe.” He gives him a soft smile. “I’m okay, Damian.” His eyes search Damian’s face. “Are you?”

Damian swallows. “I will be.” Jon nods and squeezes Damian’s arm before letting go. Jon yawns and blinks away the tears that gather. “Go to sleep. The world doesn’t need to see a grumpy Kent.”

“Kents are never grumpy,” Jon mumbles, closing his eyes. “That’s the Waynes.”

“We are not grumpy. We are _dignified_. I’m sure you wouldn’t know anything about that, farmboy.”

Jon opens one eye. “Is that what you call the expression stuck on all those family portraits at the manor?” Damian narrows his eyes in warning. “Because they all just look grumpy. Maybe it’s genetic?” Jon giggles and pulls up his blanket to avoid the pillow Damian throws at his face. He falls asleep to Damian muttering about stupid farmboys that smile idiotically and who wouldn’t understand what dignity meant even if they read it in the dictionary.

As he sleeps, he dreams of a hesitant hand trailing its fingers across his cheek. He dreams of a voice that murmurs something but the words are lost. There is something sad in the cadence of the voice—something a little broken. He wonders what the voice says to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damian you need to be a man and embrace your emotions. Don't do it when Jon is alseep! 🤦🏽*Whispers* Coward.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please drop by and tell me what you thought!


End file.
